


Let The Moth Desire Cold

by Violarm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Begging, Daddy Kink, Derek Hale & Jordan Parrish Friendship, Derek Hale & Sheriff Stilinski Friendship, Hellhound Jordan Parrish, Hurt/Comfort, Is being attracted to someone's moral standing a kink? If so they both have it, Jordan Parrish & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, OCs because the Sheriff Department doesn't run on three deputies, Pining, Praise Kink, Sensory Deprivation, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29093172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violarm/pseuds/Violarm
Summary: Heat and cold existed as binary temperatures in his body. Parrish longed for a spectrum: to feel flames and ice together. Too bad that only happened when he was around the Sheriff.Or, the one where Deputy Parrish is the moth to the flame, or the flame to the moth, or something else entirely.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Jordan Parrish/Sheriff Stilinski, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	Let The Moth Desire Cold

**Author's Note:**

> There is a disturbing deficit of content for this pairing, and I can't imagine why. Every time I re-watch Teen Wolf I swear Parrish is panting after a modicum of praise from the Sheriff. 
> 
> Not beta read--please bear with. That being said, if anyone feels up to the challenge of proof-reading this please let me know in the comments!

It hurt to look at him.

He had on the standard uniform: tan trousers encasing long legs, rising to meet a buttoned-up shirt of the same colour, badge glinting when he turned this way and that. A belt joined in the middle—a battleground of leather resting on sturdy hips, metal torch clipped in snugly beside everything that made a perverted pulse thrum heatedly in ears across the room. Ears that were supposed to be focused on work calls, voice notes and radio backup. Not listening out for the distant footsteps of his superior whenever he left his office.

“Parrish,” said Graeme.

He lost the sound of the deep voice for a moment, frantically relocating it across the room as it dipped in timbre as the conversation occurring caused it to resonate a husky chuckle. _Gotcha_. Something about dinners and wives. He hadn’t heard the joke. The syllables stretched and elongated as the speaker engaged with his partner, filling the office sphere with a familiar warmth.

“Parrish,” said Graeme. These syllables sounded clipped.

The conversation over apparently, the speaker moved on; the muscles of his back tightened momentarily as the body shifted out of the path of a deputy carrying a stack of paperwork, relaxed as he pressed calm assurances to the harassed deputy. When he smiled and leant over to relieve them of half of the files, the tan shirt pulled taut over broad shoulders, burying into every little divot of muscle and coming just short of causing a heart attack across the station.

Hips meeting at the junction between torso and legs cocked as the body bent to deposit the files on a wooden desk cluttered with stationery, photographs of family, and half-eaten pots of ramen. The belt accentuated the slight curve of waist disappearing into hip. Pulled the shirt tight around the muscular torso and clinched into place, removing every possible amount of loose material and inviting hungry eyes to rest on the exposed angles.

“For fuck’s sake, Parrish.” Graeme slammed a file onto the desk in front of him. It didn’t make him jump so much as catapult out of his uncomfortable chair. “You alright, man?” There was a note of concern in her raised voice if concern could be interpreted for thinly veiled amusement. “You were gone with the fairies. And just about everything else mystical as well. I need your eyes for these thefts.”

He wanted to argue, but she was right. The figure in the tight uniform was about as unobtainable as a unicorn, if the unicorn was sprinkled with a healthy dose of _you can’t have_ and galloping into a sunset of _never going to happen_ and _get a grip_.

“Uh, sorry, Tara. Must’ve had a late night.” He rubbed his eyes for good effect. “Want these back by Monday?”

She nodded. “If you could. They’re not high on the priority list at the moment, so catch up on some sleep before you do. Two heads aren’t better than one when one of those heads is cloudy with sleep deprivation.” She took a step back from his desk. “Seriously, though, take care of yourself, man. We can’t afford another man down with the way it is. Crazy shit happening in this town.”

Parrish let out a sigh, inclining his head slightly. With afore-mentioned mystical creatures running around on the daily, the workload had doubled, let alone the force’s never-ending losses of deputies adding to the exponential list of duties to be shouldered.

Shifting in his chair to alleviate the ache building in his lower back, he searched one last time for the voice, before realising the speaker had re-entered his office to do _work_ , like he should be completing as he sat at his desk, in the police station, in the town he was sworn to protect. Not listening out for the warm timbre that curled up his body to coil lowly in his gut.

~*~

Stiles looked at him expectantly. The box of donuts wavered in the air between them. 

“Just take one, deputy.” He leaned in closer, conspiratorially. “Who am I gonna tell, huh?”

Parrish took one, although not without a suspicious sniff into the box.

“They aren’t _poisoned_ ,” Stiles huffed.

“That’s exactly what someone who wanted to poison someone else would say.”

Managing to stare witheringly at him, and keep the box upright in the air, and keep an eye out for his father, Stiles said, “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t do it like _that_. I have _some_ imagination.”

“Aha!” He grinned up at Stiles victoriously. “So, you _do_ want something.” A timer dinged somewhere in the station, accompanied by stressed sounds of heavy breathing and files being flicked through. “I should’ve known; you never do anything nice for free. Every ounce of your time rings up to a grand total of _should’ve looked elsewhere for generosity and basic human compassion_.”

Stiles made a noise of outrage. “I’ll have you know I’ve done lots of things out of the kindness of my heart. Just ask Scott. Or Liam. Any of those Neanderthals calling themselves wolves. Hell, even Derek. Actually, wait, no. Don’t ask him. He’s been in a bad mood since yesterday _forever_.”

Parrish half sat up in his chair to check who was in the nearby vicinity when Stiles started speaking, then relaxed when he realised nothing secret and supernatural in nature would be disclosed to the bustling police station.

“—anyways, what’s so wrong with me stopping by to offer you one of these delicious donuts? Got them all fresh from Beacon Hills’ finest discount supermarket as well. You can thank me later.”

God, how did he manage to make everything he said come out so suspicious and perverted and inappropriate. Especially in a police station.

“Cut the bullshit, Stiles,” he said curtly, tired of his time being wasted. He had proper grownup work to be doing. Which didn’t involve Stilinskis distracting him.

Throwing the box onto his desk, Stiles followed soon after with his body, knocking over a mug filled with miscellaneous stationery as he got himself settled. “The thing is, Parrish,” he began, and oh sweet suffering heavens and all beyond that, there were those big, beseeching puppy eyes he’d seen work on Derek to levels varying between extreme success and extra-extreme success. “I’m leaving after this summer—I know, I know, boohoo, life is an unceasing game of Twister and we are its suffering players—and when I’m gone, guess what…guess what, Jordan?”

“Don’t call me Jordan.”

“My dad will be by himself. Alone. En solo, as the Spanish say—” it wasn’t; he’d taken four years of Spanish in high school—” and I can’t monitor what he’s shoving in his mouth several thousand miles away.”

“Ah, so that is what this is.” He leaned back in his desk chair. “You want me to play parent to a parent, and not just some parent, but a parent who is, in fact, my boss and Sheriff of this town. Stiles, I hate to break it to you, but if your father can survive being kidnapped and shot at and occasionally knocked down—”

Stiles’ eyes snapped up. “When did he get kno—”

“—then he can survive on red meat three times a week, I promise.”

He made to get back to the documents he’d been scanning on the screen in front of him when something made him look up once more.

Stiles had clambered off his desk and was standing awkwardly beside the donuts. It wasn’t the fact he was practically in Parrish’s lap that warranted attention (the kid had never learned personal space and its status as a fundamental human right) but the way he was standing.

His hands were clasped in front of him, wringing together uncomfortably, his posture hunched over defensively and…vulnerably?

“You don’t get it, Parrish,” he said, and his voice was high and strained. “I _know_ he’s going to get shot at, and shoved at, and have to work around situations that have the potential to blow up in his face, but. This is different.”

A deputy weaved past them, seemingly alleviating some of the tension drifting off Stiles in tangible waves.

“He’s my dad. And I don’t want anything happening to him that I could have prevented, okay? And for the record? It’s not three times a week; it’s five. I counted.”

Parrish let out a shocked sound before he was fully aware of doing so. “How’s he still walking around, and _looking_ like—” he cleared his throat— “like, uh, as a Sheriff of a small-town Sheriff Department should?”

Stiles just looked at him, then down at the ground and sighed. “Your guess is as good as mine. The doctor said if he continues like that, then a heart attack will hit him by the time he’s sixty.”

“How old’s he now? Strictly professionally speaking.”

He’s levelled with a somewhat knowing look—and is instantly shrivelled by the intensity behind it. He ducked his head and searched for a distraction. The donut. He took a large, unhappy bite.

“Not a day over fifty, I promise.” Stiles winked at him, fucking _winked_. “So, whaddaya say, deputy? Fancy exercising some control over the man who has chained you to desk duty while the others get to go on glorious, adrenaline-fuelled night-time stake-outs?”

Just for a moment—a fleeting, transient moment in time—he considered saying no. For the principle of it. But it _had_ stunk being stuck at the station with the newbies while deputies nowhere near matched with him in experience got to spend time out in the field with the Sheriff.

Even as hooked as he clearly was the moment Stiles opened his mouth, he knew he was being baited. The loosening tension in Stiles’ back was proof enough the boy knew exactly what he was doing when he piled it on strong.

Hook, line, sinker.

He hated fishing.

“Fine.” He made sure to take another, disinterested bite of the donut. “I’ll do it. On one condition.”

Stiles pumped a fist in the air repeatedly, stopping anxiously when he held up a solitary finger.

“Your dad never finds out that you asked me. He does, and I’ll get fired for gross misconduct.”

“It’s not gross misconduct,” Stiles argued. “You’re helping a man get his life back on track before he loses it to Steak Central. Not even God can argue with that.”

“Perhaps, but you know damn well your dad will. He doesn’t accept help, and certainly not _enforced_ help from one of his deputies half his age. I like this town—I don’t want to be driven out due to food-related reasons.”

Stiles shot him a grin. “You’re actually funny, you know that Parrish? But thank you, dude. Seriously. College wouldn’t have been the same if I was constantly worrying about whether to facetime my father every mealtime.”

“Don’t count all your chickens. I’ll try to the best of my ability, but he probably won’t listen to me.”

Retrieving the slightly battered box of donuts, Stiles turned to throw one last look over his shoulder as he made to leave. “He might surprize you.”

Before he could properly process quite what was meant by that, the half-eaten donut dangling in his hand was snatched and dumped into the waste-paper basket sitting next to his desk.

“A two-pointer! I think, if you’re going to be coaching a healthy lifestyle, you need to start with yourself first. So, no digging around for these at lunch. I have eyes everywhere.” Stiles grinned cheekily at him and left before he could get handcuffed to the leg of Parrish’s chair.

“I didn’t want any, anyway,” he muttered to himself, eyes wandering over to the closed blinds of the Sheriff’s office. _If he was eating a cheeseburger in there… he’d get him_.

~*~

After ambulances had arrived, and paramedics had rushed onto the scene with stretchers and kits of supplies, and the police were no longer needed to keep any unnecessary members of the public back from the site of emergency, arms outstretched like miniature Christ The Redeemers, Parrish allowed himself to close the gap between them to two feet or so.

“Need one of those paramedics for yourself, Sheriff?” he said, by way of introduction.

The Sheriff didn’t turn to him—too busy surveying the site for further intervention—but the left side of his mouth did lift slightly.

“This was a bad one,” he allowed, letting the awfulness of the crashes hit for the first moment since arriving on the scene. “How many injured?”

“Seven. But they’re still checking others for signs other than shock.”

“I don’t suppose the Supernatural have any miraculous methods of re-writing the past hour. So be it. Guess it’s up the good, old Sheriff’s Department. The good, old, woefully incompetent Sh—”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” Parrish said quietly. “Even if it is just to me. It’s not true. No one can help a pile up of cars. At least, I don’t think they can.”

The Sheriff sighed, dragged a palm over his brow. He suddenly had the posture of a man extremely weary of everything and everyone. “These things happen, huh? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

A team of paramedics had finished loading up the last ambulance, securing the stretcher and slamming the doors shut with well-executed urgency.

All around them was a gory tableau of destruction: three cars crumpled beyond salvaging. Glass shattered across the ground for what seemed like miles, skid marks and smoke rising from still-hot engines to produce a chilling noir-action effect. Like if accidents occurred in the shadows of daylight morphing into night morphing into dark, into dangerous.

All in the shadows of _shit happens, sometimes_.

Another car had been flung off to the side, its tires in the air, hollowed out like a skull.

“Seems terrible to say out loud.”

“That’s because it is. But we’ll do what we can, deputy. Take a squad car to the hospital; check if they have identities on any of those involved in the collision. Failing that, we’ll run the licence plates up.”

He nodded and made to leave, even though he had never wanted to do anything less. Direct order.

“Sir,” he said, turning back, but the Sheriff had already moved on, began speaking with another deputy.

It wasn’t anything of importance, what he would’ve said, anyway.

Back at the station, after going to the hospital, he allowed himself to breathe properly.

The rush of oxygen to his lungs felt selfish, undeserving when there were those at that very minute hooked up to God knows how many machines.

He couldn’t stop himself from taking another, from breathing deeply and surely and healthily. Again, and again and again, in sporadic heaves of his diaphragm. He realised he could be crying—and when had those gasps turned to sobs? —or very close to crying, so he clocked out five minutes early and didn’t even check to see whether the Sheriff’s office was occupied as he left.

In the carpark, he almost broke. Simply from being out in the open, or seeing all the cars, or finally being alone. A fatal combination of all three.

When he could see clearly again, only then did he lift his head up from the steering wheel, get the keys in the ignition, and take a shaky breath before driving out.

The journey home took longer than it should have. He refused to dwell on any possible reasons in lieu of taking a hot shower. The stream of warmth down his back and sides was grounding. The tiles of the shower cool to the touch and wet, also settling. After twenty or so minutes he was breathing normally.

He’d also run out of hot water.

The pipes overhead rattled as he got dressed in sweats and a t-shirt. They were never truly silent, but the long shower must have awakened something in them. They could’ve been roaring into the void, though. His mind was whirling, the events of the day overlapping and buzzing until none stood out in a flickering haze of sirens, shouts, smoke lifting, skid marks. Then: softly at first, gradually gaining prominence until it was grandly displayed against the backdrop of his mind, everything else fading into galaxies and non-existence:

_We’ll do what we can._

_We’ll do what we can._

_We’ll do what we can._

Over and over. Until the only siren was that of his beating heart and those soft, infallible words.

The next day, Graeme asked him if he was okay, and he said yes. It’s true, but it seemed such a terrible thing to say.

~*~

Derek asks him to come over one Saturday to fix the porch of the old Hale house. He doesn’t need the help, of course, but the company’s always enjoyable.

It’s unexpecting between them. Derek talks, when he wants to talk, and Parrish listens and contributes with wry shakes of the head, or sharp, dry laughs.

Then Stiles arrives, and with him a storm of hyperactivity.

“You can’t do that with a hammer,” Derek said wearily. He tried to pry the tool out of Stiles’ grip where he was using it to lever a pair of floorboards. When that didn’t work, he growled and let his canines lengthen.

Stiles glared at him, but otherwise relinquished his grip on the hammer. “I’m helping!”

“Go help somewhere else. I didn’t ask for your aid, nor do I appreciate you chipping the edges of my wood.”

Stiles squinted. “There’s a euphemism there, I just can’t quite see it. Fine!” He stood up, ambled over to where Parrish was ripping out floorboards the _correct_ way. “I’ll just help Parrish over here, then. Right, Parrish?”

He grunted.

“A man of few words I see,” Stiles said admiringly, beginning to remove the pile of floorboards gradually having been added to over the course of the morning. He stripped off his plaid shirt, revealing a blue t-shirt with a graphic picture of Spiderman leaping on it. “I can work with that.”

“The only work you should be doing is that of your hands lifting up this wood,” Parrish said, then winced.

Stiles grinned widely. “Now that’s a definite euphemism there, and no, I don’t take criticism.”

They worked comfortably together for another hour, then Stiles begged off under the excuse he was meeting his dad for lunch.

“It’ll be one of our last,” he mentioned, mouth curving upwards wryly. “Then Big Mister Deputy over here will be handed the reigns.” Stiles nudged him in the ribs. “It’s for a good cause, don’t grimace.”

Derek peered at them. “Stiles, you do realise your father isn’t going to listen to one of his deputies, right? You’re setting Jordan up for failure.”

A plank of wood squeaked as Stiles let out an outraged sound. “How come _he’s_ allowed to call you Jo—you know what, no, my dad will surprize both of you. He’s a little resistant to change but being in the force for twenty years will do that to you.”

“I’m awaiting the day with rabid eagerness,” Parrish said. He felt perspiration trickle down his back, and he pulled his shirt off in a fluid motion, flinging it to the side out of the way.

“No,” said Stiles, eyes focused somewhere in his near vicinity. “He won’t be resistant to this change much _at all_.”

Derek snorted for some reason, then threw another plank onto the pile.

“Deputy,” said Stiles, then smirked.

He very seriously considered walking back out of the diner. It took two seconds of furious brain whirring to realise how detrimental that would be not only to any workplace relationships, but also to any personal ones.

“Stiles,” the Sheriff said through gritted teeth. “Remember that conversation we had? That thing we spoke about? It applies now.”

Parrish _did not_ want to know what thing. He _didn’t_.

“Stiles,” he moved nearer their booth instead, “I thought you mentioned that little East-side diner as your favourite place to eat. I specifically remember you saying.”

The Sheriff made an aborted movement to stuff his mouth with salad leaves. Left the fork hovering halfway between his mouth and plate. “We decided to come here instead. Although now I’m reali—”

“Join us, Parrish!” Stiles interrupted quickly. He grandly gestured to the near-empty booth. “Saves the waiter a couple steps. You must be _starving_ after this morning.”

The Sheriff chewed on his salad leaves. Parrish winced in sympathy. “What were you doing this morning?”

He shifted on his feet, then thought _fuck it_ , and slid into the booth. If Stiles had anything to say about him choosing the Sheriff’s side, he didn’t voice it, instead spearing a curly fry with relish.

“Patching up Derek’s porch, sir. The weather got to it. Beacon Hills gets mighty bad storms, as you know.”

The Sheriff’s mouth curled up at the corner. “Along with other things, I’m sure. Is he planning on moving in?”

“I didn’t ask. Probably not.” He grimaced around the menu he held with both hands. “It’s not exactly the healthiest environment.”

“Sure,” Stiles said sarcastically, “Derek’s known for his healthy decisions, of _course_. If he wants to hide away in the woods like a sad little creeperwolf then nothing’s stopping him.”

He glared half-heartedly at Stiles. “Remember when we had that conversation about basic human compassion…you should get some. It isn’t _funny_ , Stiles.”

Stiles glanced up at him with tears in his eyes from where he’d barely been holding in his laughter. “You care about him! That’s what this is about! Admit it.”

“I care about his basic well-being, yes.” He shifted his legs under the table. Infinitely aware of the warm body beside him. “The burger and onion rings look good—”

A waitress passed their table with a pitcher of what looked like lemonade, and he gestured that he was ready to order. She nodded and mouthed ‘two minutes’.

“Nuh-uh.” Stiles shook his head delightedly. “You _care_ about him.”

The severe sound of a throat being cleared made him look to the side sharply. The Sheriff wasn’t looking at him, instead fixing a stern look at his son. “We’ll talk about something that’s comfortable for everyone—”

“I’m not uncomfor—it’s not like that—” he protested, but the Sheriff was already speaking again:

“How about college, Stiles? Got a list of all the extra-curriculars you wanna check out?”

Stiles latched onto the new topic happily, launching into a fully-fledged presentation of all the sports and artsy courses on offer.

His burger arrived a little while later, and by then even the older Stilinski was looking wearied by Stiles’ endless adulations about the forensics course. It offered a pleasant distraction, and with Stiles’ mouth stuffed full of half the onion rings from Parrish’s plate, they were free to lapse into easy conversation about the recent string of burglaries happening across town.

It was only five minutes into his burger that he realised what they looked like, sitting in the diner together, exchanging smiles and occasional laughs. It made his heart speed up until it was beating painfully in his chest. He was specialised in Explosive Ordinance Disposal, but this here, this _situation,_ felt like a bomb about to go off at any moment and he felt powerless as to preventing it.

Eventually the Sheriff stood up, patted Stiles on the back, fixed him with a warm smile. “Well, that’s my lunchbreak. Crime waits for no man.”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded, then hastily stared down at the sad remains of his mangled onion rings. His hunger had dissipated.

When he dared look back up, Stiles was fixing him with an unreadable expression, but the intensity was somewhat minimised due to the ketchup around his mouth.

“You deserve nice things.” Stiles reached for the side of the booth to pull himself out. “You gave me your food. Remember that, won’t you?”

Because he didn’t understand, in retaliation he let Stiles leave without giving him a napkin. Sat alone at the table, gathering his thoughts. Went to pay the bill, only for the waitress at the counter to tell him it had been covered.

~*~

The voice was warm and wrapped around him like a second skin. He couldn’t have escaped it if he tried, but he didn’t want to. He was feeling the most comfortable he’d felt for a long, long time. There were parts of this he didn’t understand—like how he was simultaneously alone and yet the voice never quite left from its position beside him. It was like it had built a sphere around him, encompassing both inside and out of his mind.

Where he went, it drifted into being, took shape in silent vowels and syllables, each stretching into long wavelengths he couldn’t hope to follow, but felt calm in letting happen. It both left and didn’t leave.

He tried to call out to it, and suddenly there was fire everywhere. It threatened to burn him from the inside out, but strangely enough he felt no fear. Not like he usually did. There were never any words, and the hum, and the flames, and the crackling rose to a fiery crescendo, but he could still feel it. Perhaps it shouldn’t be called a voice if he never heard it; but when he went to call it by anything else, nothing fit.

All he knew, as his mind lay trapped within his sleeping body, covers strewn this way and that about his limbs, was that the fire never lasted long when the voice lit its shield around him. Warm in a way fire wasn’t. A heated glow of a candle compared to the soulless torture of Hades.

The flames subsided and suddenly he couldn’t even remember burning. Standing in the dark with all his sensation intact made sense, despite the apparent shift in time and space. When the absence around him felt too pressing, too urgent, he couldn’t remember what had filled it. Apparently, it did leave, of its own accord.

When he woke up the darkness of the night was just settling in to being chased away by the morning. He felt around for the blankets he’d thrown off in his sleep and found them at the end of the cold bed. All he had was a small cocoon of warmth that begged for his return, but it was the middle of the week, so he gathered all the warmth to him and slid off the edge of the bed. Cool wood greeted his feet as he stumbled to the shower.

This was normal. This was warm and cold, and polar opposites and co-existence. Not the single, over-arching, over-powering temperature of his dreams. Here he could be chilled and heated and not worry about bursting into ice or flames or whatever his mind decided to throw at him. The façade was a shattered one; his mind couldn’t hurt him while he was awake.

The shower was brief but sufficient, and by the time he clattered out with steam curling around him, he felt like a new man.

A bowl of yoghurt was for breakfast, with delicately chopped banana (read: torn off in manageable chunks) and muesli (tossed in, no objections). He leant against his kitchen counter while he ate, the linoleum slipping occasionally against the smooth material of his uniform-shirt. Already he felt at grips with the wakening world. The emotion coiled in his gut with the banana.

An hour later he was walking into the station, greeting Graeme at the reception desk with a nod and leaving with the promise that he’d catch whoever was stealing her soy milk out of the fridge.

His desk was exactly how he’d left it the day before, files neatly piled to the side in order of importance, a clean mug with a Mr Men character on it beside his keyboard. The department-issued computers were slow and filled with so much grime and who-knows-what-else, that he’d taken his keyboard home and deep-cleaned it, painstakingly lifting each key up to get at the mummified remains living beneath. Now, his practically sparkled in comparison to everyone else’s. Graeme often threatened him with cleaning hers when he owed her a favour.

He dropped into his chair with an undercurrent of excitement coursing through his body. He loved his job and just being in the station surrounded by the noise of deputies and the upholding of the law felt like a coming home.

He was due at the primary school from mid-morning to just after lunch, having drawn the short straw on duties. It wasn’t difficult work, just dull and mindless. Still, it was what he’d signed up for.

The Sheriff walked up to his desk a few minutes before he was supposed to leave. He was engrossed in writing up a report, head bent over the desk, eyes trained downward.

“I hope your instincts are slightly better out in the field,” the Sheriff said, wryly, as he jumped.

“Uh, yeah, they are…Sir?” He rubbed the elbow he’d whacked against the arm of his chair.

The Sheriff adjusted his belt, shirt tightening momentarily. “I’m joining you. You’re on patrol, aren’t you? I need to get an idea of a normal day in this town.”

“It’s going to be so normal, just to cheat you.”

“Probably.” He let out a low chuckle, and Parrish felt his cheeks heat. “What do you say, deputy?”

He looked down at his report, then back at him. “Could I have a minute to finish this up? I’ll meet you at the car.”

“Right.” The Sheriff smiled again, this time the slightest curve of his mouth, and he needed to get the report done, to clean something, to— He was walking away. And Parrish sat, frozen, in his seat, unable to do anything other than simply watch.

“Oooh,” said Graeme, as he rushed for his jacket and stumbled passed her desk. “Look who’s going on a big outing with Boss. Let me know if he does that thing where he flips open his notep—”

He would have scowled at her if he wasn’t so distracted by the curling of his insides. _Get a grip, Jordan. You’re trained for this. You’ve wanted this for ages, don’t fuck up now._

Between the time it took for him to pass the front doors and step out into the carpark, his face was carefully set into the calm mask he’d perfected over the years. It was his professional face. The face he showed to the world to get where he was today.

Sunlight streamed over gravel, sparkling on pieces of fine glass and stone moulded into the ground. His feet stepped across the tar, thud, thud, thud, reigning in the beat of his heart ‘til it slowed to a recognisable glub, glub, glub. A sense of calmness washed over him as he spotted the Sheriff leaning against the car, hips cocked, face pointed up at the sun, eyes closed.

He managed to get within a few feet before the Sheriff noticed him.

“I hope your instincts are normally better than that, Sheriff,” he said, in a moment of insanity. Before he could choke the words back, stumble over a mortified apology, he was gifted another blinding curve of lips and a glimpse of teeth.

“You’ll have to do much more than that to get me to jump, Parrish.”

He grasped blindly for his mask, sunk his fingertips into it before it could slide further.

“I’ll drive,” he said, slipping a hand into his pocket for the keys.

They made their way out of the station’s carpark, his hands firmly on the steering wheel. This was one thing he could do. The drive was silent, but not awkward. No radio calls came through, not that he was really expecting any in the few minutes they’d been out.

A few classes had been let out when they pulled up outside the school, kids of various sizes running around manically.

The Sheriff let out a dry chuckle. “Reminds me of how energetic Stiles was at that age. Then after that, and now as well, I guess.”

“You can just stop at Stiles. I can imagine it was twenty times worse when he was younger, though.”

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Felt like we were auditioning 24/7 for a job in Hell’s Kitchen.”

We. Him and his wife. Parrish didn’t know what to say in response to that, but the Sheriff just shook off the memories, an absent-minded expression on his face as he played at the band around his finger.

He took the keys out of the engine, opened the door and stepped out. He felt like he’d stepped out of a cocoon of sorts; a sphere of something private and just them.

Immediately, a little girl of around seven ran up to the fence, calling out enthusiastically. He smiled and walked up to the metal dividing them and crouched down.

“Hey Maisy. What have you got up to today?” He nodded at the teacher in charge of the playground, then turned his attention back to the little girl.

“We did a picture of our parents in macaroni. Mine was prettier than Jules’ and he got help from Mrs Weston.”

He scoffed dramatically. “You’re having me on!”

“I’m not! I’m not!” She giggled, clutching at the fence. Her eyes landed on the figure inside the squad car, and she gasped. “Is that the Sheriff?”

“He’s here because we heard some little children are being naughty. Your teacher called us.”

Maisy rolled her eyes, rather precociously for her age. Gone were the days where elders and authority figures garnered respect simply from virtue of status. “We haven’t been naughty. I promise. Except Karl, but it wasn’t bad enough to go to jail. He pulled Lucy’s hair. Do you want to tell him off? I’ll get him.”

“No, no,” Parrish replied hastily, “that’s quite alright, Maisy. I’m sure he’s sorry. Now it’s time for you to go play with your friends, but remember what we talked about…”

She nodded seriously, big eyes peering up at him. “I’ll be on the lookout for baddies. Bye, deputy.”

“Bye-bye. Have fun.” He watched her run off to a small group of girls, turning to wave at him and almost tripping.

Next was Jules, who sidled up to the fence bashfully.

“Hey Deputy Parrish.” His hands were stuck deep in his pockets, body hunched in on itself. “Can I also watch out for baddies?”

Parrish grinned easily. He leant on the fence with one hip, a hand gripping for balance. “Sure, you can. Us police need all the help we can get. You don’t scare easily, do you?”

“Only of the dark, sometimes,” he said easily. His hoodie was enormous, drowning him, making his little body appear even smaller.

He was suddenly struck with how young all these kids were. And how dangerous Beacon Hills had been getting. If it wasn’t for Scott and the pack…he didn’t like admitting failure, but even as a deputy there was only so much, he could do. As anything else—well, he wasn’t one hundred percent acquainted with his limits. Yet.

He surveyed the perimeter, refusing to let his eyes rest on the car, skimming over quickly for any signs to the disruption of peace. He didn’t spot anything; not like he thought he would, anyway.

A little hand snuck through the fence to tug on his trousers. He glanced down at Jules.

“Yeah, Jules?”

“You promise to protect us?”

“Yeah, Jules, of course. Why?”

The kid shook himself. Smiled up at him perfectly. All dimples and crinkled eyes. “Nothing. Jus’ thinking.”

He let his gaze linger for a moment, until Jules began to shift in place, then bade him goodbye and watched him skip across the playground. Jules never stayed long. Always for some clarification of Parrish’s duties, or to offer up a sunny smile, then left as quickly as he had arrived.

He stayed for a minute or so longer, until the teachers herded their classes back inside. One or two of them waved at him, and he returned the greeting. There was something about patrolling around the school that made him uneasy. Perhaps because it had been so long since he was a kid, himself.

The street outside the school was quiet, almost deserted like it always was at midday. He turned and headed back for the car. The door slammed shut and he was back in the impenetrable sphere.

The Sheriff was busy with something file-y in his lap, so he started the car without speaking. He leant over and tugged gently on the seat belt across the Sheriff’s chest, refusing to flush when the Sheriff raised an eyebrow at him.

“I wasn’t sure if you had it fastened,” he said, by way of explanation. It was curt, but for some reason he was finding it hard to words, lips, sound.

He was fixed with an unreadable expression, and the intensity behind it had him glancing away to the dashboard. They had enough fuel. Great.

He backed out onto the road, the Sheriff directing him towards an area he wanted to check out.

“You’re popular with Beacon Hills’ population of under-tens,” he remarked. “You’re too young to have a kid.”

When they stopped at a red traffic light, he turned to stare pointedly at his superior. “I’m twenty-five. It’s amazing what a healthy diet and lots of exercise does to one’s appearance, but yeah. Twenty-five. That’s plenty old enough. When did you have Stiles?”

Silence. And then: “Twenty-seven,” he replied, shame faced. “But I had already served in the army and gone to college.”

Parrish let out a burst of laughter, as abrupt as it was sharp. “I served too. And died. But we don’t talk about that. I’m old enough to have a child.”

“If you say so, son.” The Sheriff looked out the passenger window. “Light’s going green.”

He was too fired up to let it go. “And you’re telling me no one on school duty talks to those kids?”

The Sheriff huffed out a sigh. “You’d be surprized. It’s good though: everyone needs someone to talk to. Even kids.”

If he nearly stalled the car from the compliment, well. The Sheriff was too busy going through his notepad again to notice. He hoped.

~*~

The day after Stiles left for college, he woke up to five texts on his phone, a missed call, and a package pushed through his letterbox. How Stiles had managed to get his private number, he didn’t know, but the kid was eight-teen, so it wasn’t _bad_ he did. Just…unsettling.

He’d worked a nightshift, so had only stumbled out of bed at around noon. The texts read as follows:

Parrish, heyyyyyy. It’s Stiles. I got your number t-

-o remind you of your promise. It’s set-in stone and only I have the hammer. I’ve included a weekly shopping list so you can check that my dad’s been sticking to it. He’s allowed two cheats a week.

[document sent: 8:04 a.m.]

Thanks, man. DON’T LET My dAD FIND OUT ABouT THE KEY

I hate the keyboard on this phone wth

And… what? He read through the texts again, then remembered the package. He retrieved it and slit it open neatly with the knife he’d been using to butter his toast. A single key fell out. He stared at it. There was no doubt as to what it was: it was clearly meant to unlock doors, and _oh. Oh, man_.

He held a key to the Sheriff’s house in his palm. It was long and metal and silver and utterly unremarkable, except for the fact that right now it felt like it contained the secrets to the universe. He was certain that, put to use, it would unlock more than doors.

Stiles had given him a key to his boss’s house. And then he realised, with a dawning horror, that he was going to _use_ the key to his boss’s house. This had to be breaking some kind of law, if not legal, at the very least ethical. But was it unethical to care, your honour?

It weighed in his hand, and he suddenly had to put it down on the countertop, followed by both his hands. It was beyond pathetic. It was stupid and pitiful and—

He was lonely, he realised. And today was the day he promised go out for drinks with a few of the other deputies. The Sheriff would have said goodbye to Stiles and left him settled in his claustrophobic college dorm. Been at work for a few hours before returning to an empty house.

He needed to keep the Sheriff company tonight, use it as a gateway to assert himself into this new lifestyle Stiles had issued. Anything was possible in a bar with raucous laughter, work colleagues, and alcohol.

He replied to Stiles with a thumb’s up emoji, then promptly ignored his phone for the rest of the day until it was time to go out. Numbly, he dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a Henley, checking his watch as he did so. It was already dark out.

Generally, he didn’t mind going out with his fellow deputies. Johnson was on nightshift, so he wouldn’t be joining them, nor Ainsley, Trevors, or Sibanda. Kelly was, though, and Graeme, who he was giving a lift. She said it was for ease’s sake, they both knew that wasn’t the truth. And the Sheriff. Who hadn’t joined them on a night-out since Parrish had joined the force, except for once or twice, and even then, only for a couple of hours.

When he pulled up outside Graeme’s place, she flung her front door open, grabbing her coat and toppling into the car.

He gave her an amused look. “Started already, have you?”

She sniffed, touched up her lip gloss in the side mirror. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He refused to drive with her head hanging half out of his window, so he switched off the engine, sat motionlessly until she was finished.

She flattened her hair in that time as well. Then fluffed it straight after. “You’re precious,” she told him when he finally started the engine.

“I’m sensible,” he said. “And practical. If you lost your head from your body, it would take _at least_ an hour before I made it to the bar. And I need a drink.”

“That’s right!” she crooned. “You do. Take this right.”

They parked and walked in together, Tara immediately spotting their group at the back of the room, clustered around two tables.

He felt a chill run up his spine at the same time a tingle of heat trickled down.

He exchanged greetings with the group, allowed himself to be clapped on the back a couple of times. He could tell who’d already been drinking by the force of their slap.

Sounds of conversation mingled with the low music playing overhead out of speakers, a hushed atmosphere pervaded by vibrations diegetic and non-diegetic.

He looked around the room, subtly searching for something, someone.

“Parrish,” Kelly called out, standing so close he felt the echo of her voice in his bones. “You gotta catch up. Here.” She handed him a beer. It was unopened, which was the only reason he accepted it.

He drank it and waited. He knew as soon as he stepped through the doorway. Felt the seismic shift in the atmosphere, gentle like an apocalypse, picked up only by himself. The warmth floated to him, along tremors of quivering anticipation— _he_ was quivering with tremors of anticipation—and floated on the warmth afforded to him.

His fingers tingled around the beer bottle, clenched and loosened, heat both emitted and received through his fingertips. Let it scorch him like lightening. Then cold crashed into him like a tidal wave, like a volcano and chased away any residual warmth. He’d left the door open by mistake, closed it with an apologetic smile, joined Graeme and Strauss’s conversation. The temperatures balanced beautifully.

He could move his feet. Could walk over and be accepted into the fold easy as breathing. He didn’t know why he didn’t; stayed standing with the condensation dripping down his bottle and wetting his hand.

Kelly pressed another into his hand and removed the empty bottle; swapped glass for glass.

The key.

Lying on the counter where he’d left it to vegetate. Would he use it? Of course, he would. He’d also drink this one as well. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a gulp. It slid down his throat and all he could think about was that stupid key. He had metal and glass right now, along with heat and ice.

Faintly, he heard someone talking to him, Tara, and he responded. Something about how they all needed this. The thing is, maybe he really had. But now he’d had enough of artificial happiness and making-do with cheap antidotes of calmness, he wanted to dive-first and experience the thrill of losing to win.

The body had shifted closer when he wasn’t aware, making rounds of all the deputies, engaging with everyone the way a leader should. Now it was his turn.

“Evening, sir,” he said, fighting the irrational urge to hide the bottle behind his back. “Long time no see.”

Tara and the Sheriff share an amused look.

“I saw you yesterday, deputy. As you were coming off shift.”

“Right. Tara, can I speak to you for a moment?”

She nodded, face morphing into a bewildered expression. She followed him to a dark corner.

“I can’t drive. I’ve had two beers.”

“So, you have.” She sounded not in the least surprized. “We talked about you letting loose for once, and here you have. Well done! I’m so proud.”

“Don’t be condescending, I’m older than you.”

She clucked her tongue. “You and your obsession with age. Listen, the Sheriff already agreed to drop us back. You can get your car tomorrow.”

He looked up at her in a panic. “What? Tara—no! No, I can’t do that.”

But there wasn’t much use in arguing: she’d slunk off, moving back to the group, hips swaying to the old-timey music playing. She turned and winked at him, too far away for him to glare at her properly.

From there on out he remembered forcing himself to have a good time. It was difficult. It felt like there were eyes on him at every turn, not judging—simply observing--like he was the most interesting thing to happen to the world that night. It still made him nervous. So, he finished the bottle Kelly had given him. There was something at the back of his mind, niggling there. He’d had a plan or had meant to do something. It didn’t matter when Kelly and Tara pulled him onto a makeshift dancefloor—a corner, really—and by the time he was flushed with exertion and alcohol, it mattered even less.

“I shouldn’t have,” he told the Sheriff miserably. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m supposed to be _responsible_.”

The Sheriff’s eyes crinkled, and he wanted to cry. “You’re allowed a night off, Parrish. I’ve got you and Graeme.”

“She needs someone to watch her,” he said, feeling cold all over suddenly.

The Sheriff was smiling a lot, he realised, and he didn’t know why.

“She does,” he agreed neutrally. He was wearing a button down with a jacket thrown over. The material still clung the same. Made it hard to swallow. “Are you not having fun, anymore? We can leave, although it looks like we’re going to have to drag Graeme kicking and screaming.”

“Are _you_ having fun?” He remembered something. “I was supposed to make tonight fun for you!” he said, dismayed. “I forgot. Because of Stiles leaving. I thought maybe you needed cheering up.”

His boss was silent for a moment. “You always surprize me, Parrish,” he said lowly, finally. The sound was warm against the heat coiling in his stomach from the beer. “This is just fine.”

They sat listening to the music for long moments, watching the others and sharing twin looks of commiseration when Graeme tripped over Kelly, or one of the other deputies ordered another drink.

“I did need cheering up,” the Sheriff said, breaking the silence existing between them as a sliver of ice about to melt. “Because of Stiles leaving. But you’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”

Parrish turned to him, eyes impossibly wide and lips parting, “Sir, I—”

“Jooordaann.” Tara draped herself over him, body heaving from exertion. Her perfume smelt like jasmine, mixed with the alcohol on her breath. “I’m tired.”

“Graeme,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Not in front of the Sheriff.”

“Where’s he?” she whispered back.

The Sheriff stood. “Come on you two. I think it’s home time.” He peered at Graeme. “Especially for you.”

They got into the car with only minor trouble. He sat in the backseat with her weight pressing him into the door. He pressed the kiddie-lock on as a second thought.

He met the Sheriff’s gaze in the rear-view mirror and the approving nod had him hastily burrowing into Tara’s hair.

He managed to get her onto her front porch easily. He rang the bell, knowing Amy was waiting up.

“She didn’t even drink that much,” he said by way of greeting when Amy opened the front door in a plum bathrobe.

“Sure,” she said, laughing softly as she gathered Tara in her arms. “Hey babe. Did you have fun tonight?”

Tara nodded. “Even though he only danced for, like, ten seconds.” She tried to point at him, ended up pointing at the ceiling.

‘Half an hour’ he mouthed at Amy. She snorted and moved Tara into the house.

“Thanks, Jordan. Did she embarrass herself in front of the Sheriff?”

“Yeah.”

“Brilliant. Alright, catch you later. Thanks again.”

“Bye Amy.” He turned and left the porch, hopping down the steps and making his way back to the waiting car.

The ride to his house was a blur. He sat in the front passenger seat, this time. The air was thick with something. When it came time for him to get out of the car, he waited a fraction of a second too long, until all he could do was sit there, silent, wracking his brain for something to say.

“Sorry for the bother,” he settled on. Then wanted the seat to swallow him up. Wanted to sink into an abyss of upholstery and polyurethane. It would be cool and dark and he wouldn’t make a fool of himself, and if he wanted, he could rest his cheek against the frame of the seat and close his eyes.

The Sheriff’s hands stilled their gentle tapping of the steering wheel. He felt it rather than saw it when he turned to look at him.

“It was nothing of the sort. It was my pleasure.” His gaze was absent-minded. “I can’t remember the last time I went out. Been too long, probably.”

“I enjoyed spending time with you,” he said, too honestly for him to take back. He watched the words reach their intended target, obliterate the easy-ish atmosphere they’d carefully curated.

The Sheriff swallowed, and Parrish was glued to the movement of his throat, how the muscle constricted then lengthened.

“I—I think—” the Sheriff said with difficulty, and god, he’d ruined everything, he’d lost his grip on his mask, let it crash against the heat of the moment into infinitesimal smithereens— “it’s time to call it a night. You must be ready for bed.”

_I’m not, I’m not!_ His mind screamed.

But the Sheriff had given him an out, a chance to pick up the pieces of his mask and glue them together. So, he smiled blandly and generally, held a hand up as the car backed away. He nursed the pain in his body as he opened the front door.

“Parrish!”

He turned around, keys dangling in his hand.

“I enjoyed myself, too.” The Sheriff smiled his smile where his eyes crinkled and Parrish’s heart threatened to stop beating in his chest and there should be method revival—of resuscitation—for it, because it was a _hazard_ and a _weapon_.

The car started again, and Parrish was eventually left standing outside his front door with the beginnings of renewal, like a phoenix, burning in his chest. It was a peace offering, of sorts, and he grasped onto it with both hands and clutched tightly.

“I—I, _sir_.” He stood in the doorway, in a pair of ratty sweatpants and a long-sleeve shirt.

“Parrish.” There was a definite amused undertone to his voice. Which was too deep for him to deal with this early in the mor—

“It’s midday?” he exclaimed, twisting to look at the clock hanging haphazardly on the hallway wall.

The Sheriff chuckled. “As a matter of fact, it’s nearing early evening. I thought you may need a lift to your car.”

His car. That he’d left in the bar’s carpark because he’d drunk and stupidly embarrassed himself.

“I’ll get a jacket.” He turned in the narrow space of the hallway and headed upstairs. His keys were still in the pocket of his jeans from the night before, he knew, and his jacket was hung on a closet door.

“You didn’t have to do this, sir,” he said, climbing into the car. There was that sphere again. He pulled his fractured mask closer to him. “I could have walked.”

“You could have,” the Sheriff agreed. “Want me to pullover here?”

He smirked almost instinctively. “I’m fine here. I think I pulled something last night.”

“Graeme and Ross did quite a number on you.”

He laughed awkwardly, not quite sure how to interpret that comment.

“God, on the dancefloor! I meant on the dancefloor,” the Sheriff said, voice raised in panic.

“Right.” He grinned, confident now he wasn’t the one stumbling over his words. “Kelly and I are just friends. And Tara’s in a relationship, you _know that_ Sheriff. Where are those detective skills?”

It wasn’t fair how quickly the Sheriff recovered.

“You’ve certainly perked up. I don’t remember you being like this last night,” he sighed, shaking his head faux-sadly. He made a right turn. “You were so quiet and good in the backseat. I’ve half a mind to make drinking at work a requirement for you.”

“That’s,” he started laughing, to cover up how much the Sheriff’s words made him want to sink to his knees, “strangely moral and immoral of you.”

“It’s a condition.” The Sheriff’s hands slid over the wheel as they made a smooth left turn. “Have you heard from Graeme?”

“Not yet.” He’d checked his phone when he woke up. “She’s probably still passed out. There’s my car.”

The Sheriff changed down gears as they slid into the bay beside his car, switching out of gear when the car stilled, leaving his hand resting on the gearstick. Parrish traced the fine bones settled over the rounded head of the gearstick with his eyes, looking up quickly when the body beside him shifted.

“Uh, thank you, sir. I appreciate it. See you tomorrow.” He darted out of the car like his seat was on fire, fumbling for his keys and unlocking his own car with trembling hands.”

“Parrish—” the Sheriff called, but he was already putting his car in reverse.

The last thing he saw before he entered the main road was the bewildered expression on the Sheriff’s face. His hands felt hot and cold, and it was nice enough not to distract him into crashing.

~*~

“I can’t, Stiles,” he said, frustrated, pacing the landing with his phone to his ear. “It isn’t right at all. I’d be breaking and entering.”

_First of all_ , came Stiles’ tinny voice over the line, _you’d be doing him a favour. You’re prolonging his lifespan. The population of Beacon Hills thanks you for your service in helping their Sheriff. Secondly—and I can’t believe I have to say this—you have a key. At most it would be ‘placing key gently in lock and entering’. You are not backing out now._

“I just—” he pulled the phone away from his ear to stare at it disbelievingly. Brought it back again. “ _Did you just call me a pussy?”_

There was silence for a moment, then Stiles’ voice crackled through his phone. _I’m beginning to regret that now. I think it was the adrenaline. But, come on dude. I’ll send you a timetable of his shifts so there aren’t any nasty surprizes of him bumping into you in the middle of the night._

“I wasn’t going to go at midnight.”

_You were, don’t lie to me. Your little deputy mind couldn’t resist the thought of creeping around in the dark, waiting to be caught. It’s actually kinda kinky when you think about i—_

“You can’t speak to a deputy like that. I’m a member of the police force.”

_Then act like it! Show my dad’s diet who’s boss. Parrish, you wouldn’t believe how few people it takes to empty one ke—_

“I’m going to stop you right there, Stiles. The less I know about your _activities_ , the less I have to intervene as a member of afore-mentioned police force.” He passed into his bedroom, grabbed his towel on his way to the shower. “But I’m glad you’re having fun. I kinda feel like I missed out on not going to college.”

_Thanks, man. But it’s definitely not for everyone. You seem to have figured something out for yourself, just fine._

“Send me the schedule,” he said, laying his towel beside the basin.

_Aye, aye, deputy. See you._

He laid his phone next to the towel and grimaced. It still felt like he was embarking on a life of crime.

**The shopping list read as follows:**

  * Milk
  * Bread (every two weeks, there should always be a loaf of wholegrain in the freezer)
  * Orange juice with pulp. Never the other kind
  * Dozen carton of eggs. Any extra eggs at the end of the week to be used in a protein shake
  * Potatoes stored in cupboard next to plates. One pack to last two weeks-ish
  * Turkey mince only
  * Sausage meat for two meals a week (one pack should suffice)
  * Oven-baked chips. Whatever flavour. Only a six-pack
  * Three kinds of fruit a week. Should always be in fridge
  * Vegetables (four kinds, excluding potatoes.) Should always be in fridge/cupboard
  * Two tubs of Greek yoghurt
  * Honey needs replacing every month or so
  * Condiments such as peanut butter (always crunchy), jam, marmalade. Never Nutella or Melrose
  * Chicken breasts/ steak (once a week only)/fish
  * Two tins of tuna a week
  * A six-pack of beer every two weeks
  * Other things to always be in the cupboard: vegetable oil/olive oil (never sunflower), tinned tomatoes, pasta, crackers (multi-grain), cereal (muesli, bran flakes, cornflakes, never coco pops), oats,
  * Block of cheese every week (cheddar, Gloucester, go nuts. But no ready-sliced, or baby bells, or cheese strings)



He snorted at the number of times Stiles had underlined ‘never’ and ‘no’. It was a fairly comprehensible list; it had all the items he usually bought for himself, and none of the items were specially branded. He could do this.

The schedule Stiles had sent him contained a timetable of all the deputies’ shifts, as well as one with just the Sheriff’s penned hours. He worked every day except Sundays and Mondays, although it changed now and then. Parrish compared it with his. He had Sundays off to, as well as Saturdays and Thursday afternoons. The schedules changed every month, but for now he was in the clear.

He could go as soon as the Sheriff left for his night shift on Monday. Enter the house when it wasn’t bright enough for the neighbours to spot him. It was Sunday evening now.

He had laundry to do, which would occupy him for an hour or two. A few dishes to be washed up. He could sweep the floor. Make up his own shopping list. Then, sleep for a couple of hours, go to work, come home. Read for a bit, shower, eat, watch a film.

He did all of that, minus the watching a film. And the reading. The words jumbled together, shifting on top of each other. His mind wandered in a foggy haze of exhaustion. The day had been epically busy: he’d been called to three sites of burglary, filed four reports of vandalism, followed up on a noise complaint filed earlier, visited the town’s bigger supermarket where someone had called in about a disorderly person, and finished up a report. It was mainly just driving around town, but the adrenaline spike always left one grappling for energy.

When it neared eight p.m., he grabbed his phone and keys. The moon was out, and the air cool. He found himself wishing he’d thought to bring a jacket or hoodie. Deciding to park a block away, he got out and locked the car, walking to the Stilinski residence. They had one nosy neighbour, he knew, Stiles had complained about her on a few occasions. Hoping she’d gone to bed, he climbed the porch step, hand already clutched around the key in his pocket.

It felt cool to the touch at first, gradually warming due to the heat of his hand. He pressed it into the seam of the pocket, wiping away the faint traces of sweat beading in his palm. Metal. Flesh. He could do it; all he needed to do was take it out into the night air. In the lock, it made a soft, scraping sound, then he pulled it free as the door swung open. The inside of the house was darkened, shrouded in silence and shadow.

The first few steps inside were racked with guilt, and a more unwelcome, unfamiliar emotion. Excitement. A thrill at being surrounded by something he didn’t let himself think about ever. It wasn’t healthy or moral and it certainly wasn’t good to feel a perverted satisfaction at pretending to walk into a house that wasn’t his, as if it was. None of it was his. But the sphere was warm, and it let him in with soft assurances, caressing him with tepid touches and transient ghosts of temperatures too hot for someone to survive in.

The path to the kitchen felt like it had been lit by sparklers that had long ago burnt out, leaving a silent hum of warmth, a memory of crackling and burning that lit his way into the other room. The kitchen was tiled cream and blue. He’d seen it before when he’d stopped by once to pick up some files and Stiles had given him a drink. It was cool now, bathed in shadowed moonlight. He switched the light on, heat and cold meeting and swirling around his ankles.

He had the list up on his phone, just had to unlock it and get to work. First was the dry ingredients. He counted pasta, tins of various sorts, cereals, biscuits, crackers. All fine. He did the same with the cupboards, accidently opening the wrong ones from time to time. Then he got to the fridge and stopped.

“Oh,” he whispered, even though there was no need to be quiet, “oh, Sheriff.” There, on the top shelf, was two six-packs of beer. He reached into the fridge and pulled both packs out. They were unopened, which was reassuring. The consume-by date was fairly soon, so these weren’t new packs. Still. Now that he’d got this far, he realised he didn’t know what to do. Telling Stiles felt dishonest, like he’d be going behind the Sheriff’s back, but what was the point in all this, then?

He could push them back onto the shelf. Close the fridge and get the hell out of the house that didn’t belong to him.

He only did one of the two: stumbled out of the kitchen, lingered in the open-plan living room. That was firmly against the rules. That was crossing the line. Even Stiles wouldn’t allow that. He was a _deputy_ , he knew what constituted as wrong, and _that_ was definitely, utterly, completely across the line. Even so, his eyes drifted to the staircase. Lingered on the bottom step and slowly lifted up, up, up until he could feel his heart in his throat.

He moved unconsciously. It was like he had no agency, no control over his body. God, had he heard that excuse so many times as a police officer and hated it. He drifted up the stair, hands gliding along the handrail. The door to one of the rooms was closed, and he assumed it was Stiles’ bedroom. The first floor had four rooms: a bathroom, Stiles’ bedroom, and two others.

One door revealed a slightly dusty, empty room. There was a bed neatly made, but not much else. A chest of drawers with a thin film of dust over the top. A chair with no cushion. A guest bedroom, he guessed. That left one room.

He should stop now. Go back downstairs and leave. It was wrong and betrayed every sense of the word trust, it was voyeuristic and shameful and he nudged the door wider open. The warmth that flowed out of the room through the open doorway was almost enough to bring him to his knees. It was like a sauna for the broken-hearted, the lost and the sad, and him. He couldn’t help but wander in, like a zombie plodding along with uneven steps.

A moth to the flame.

Idly, he wondered which was which. He exuded enough warmth.

A double bed stood in the middle of the room, two bedside tables framing it. He’d never made it this far into the house. Knew he should leave now, before things escalated further. The curtains were half drawn, the room in shadow and still so inviting to his wearied mind. The exhaustion he’d felt earlier crashed into him, adrenaline retreating back through his veins. Everything was dark and warm and there was that sphere again. But this sphere was a smaller one, inside the larger, encompassing shield. The covers were a light blue, and the pillow cases a cream colour. There was just enough moonlight to guess at the colour scheme of the room.

It was all he could do to sink onto the bed, he needed it so badly. It felt like a bigger crime to deny that urge. Everything else took a backseat, relegated to the back burner, to a slow and steady heat. The sheets were cool against his skin. They welcomed him like a lover and so he sunk down, let himself submerge in the stillness of the room.

He felt the voice again. It was burning brighter and hotter than the flames in and around him. For that, he trusted it implicitly. Let it fight fire with fire. Whoever had said that that rendered null results was wrong. The heat flaying at his insides subsided to a gentle simmer, and he let out a relieved breath. There was nothing untoward about fire itself; he liked fire. He liked this fire, the flames the voice nursed carefully and respectfully. It was tenderer than any words spoken to him by lovers.

When he opened his eyes, he stared at the wall unseeing for a while. The sound of a car was distant, rumbling at the edges of his consciousness, and he drifted within and out of himself in the dark. Then he sat up in sheer panic.

The room wasn’t his.

His curtains were a shade of green. An awful feeling snuck up his spine. The sound of a car was nearer this time, almost as if—he frantically dug into his pocket for his phone. The lit screen read: 5:08.

He flung himself out of the bed, nausea coiling in his stomach. The Sheriff’s bed. That he’d fallen asleep in. The panic was threatening to overtake him. He crawled upright, smoothing the bedspread, then dashed to the window. Outside, the Sheriff’s car was parking in front of the house, front lights beaming on the garage door.

He sprinted out the room, barrelling down the stairs to the front door. He couldn’t leave out the front of the house. That’d be foolish. He locked the front door, praying the key Stiles had given him unlocked all the doors in the house. Footsteps sounded on the gravel outside, and he darted into the kitchen. Hurrying towards the back door, he sent up a prayer that he wouldn’t act without thinking again. Even as the key slipped perfectly into the lock and he turned the handle, almost melting in relief, he was filled with a restfulness no amount of sleeping in his own bed had managed to quite dissipate.

He closed the backdoor as the Sheriff unlocked the front, tired to the bone after a long shift.

Now was the small problem of the garden fence. After the fright he’d had in the house, he felt capable of anything. He scaled it easily, hoping against all hope that the neighbours weren’t early risers. Because it was morning. He’d spent the whole night in the Stilinskis’ house. In the Sheriff’s _bed_. He refused to dwell on it. He would melt into a puddle on the street to be washed away as a car sped past.

He still needed to feedback to Stiles on the Sheriff’s diet. Fuck.

~

“Just a minute, Stiles—Parrish! Get in here,” the Sheriff called, sounding exasperated.

His heart dropped straight through his ribs, rattling the bone as it descended.

“Coming sir,” he replied, already getting up from his desk.

Kelly raised her eyebrows at him as he rushed past. He ignored her, frantically figuring out the best way of explaining his actions. He couldn’t come up with much other than ‘I don’t want you to die’, and he could _not_ say that.

‘Good luck,’ she mouthed, then turned back to her computer. He sometimes wanted to blow up this whole station.

“Sir?” he said, appearing in the doorway to the Sheriff’s office.

The Sheriff thrust a phone at him. “Speak to my son.”

He accepted the phone, managing to not fumble it. “Stiles?”

_Parrish! Listen, don’t let that old grump coerce you into whatever he’s about to do. Can you have lunch with him?_ (And make sure he eats a salad or something, went unsaid.) _I hate to throw this on you, I know how miserable he can get. Pretty pleaseeee?_

“I can’t just—if he doesn’t want to—” he looked up awkwardly at the Sheriff, who was standing with both hands resting on his hips. “Stiles, he’s an adult, and—”

The Sheriff made a pleased, rumbling noise.

He hastily focused his attention back on Stiles— “I’m his _deputy_.” The last part was hushed, because the situation was embarrassing enough without bringing his clear lower status into the fold. “This isn’t pre-school, where you can force someone to be friends with you.”

When he looked back over at the Sheriff, he was being watched with an intensity that made his skin heat.

_I know you’re only saying that because he’s watching you, so I’ll let you get away with a single ‘traitor’, and go and do my heaps of assignments and worry endlessly about my dad who I haven’t seen in weeks—_

Parrish pursed his lips. “Don’t tell me there were fifty people there. Seventy? Well, you’re an adult I guess—”

_Parrish, what are you talking about?_

“Nah, I know the stuff you’re talking about. This isn’t it. Doesn’t hit as hard, but you’ll definitely feel it the next day. Were there really seventy people?”

_No! Stop!_ Panicked breathing. _I know what you’re doing, Parrish. Stop it. Is he listening? Dad! Dad! It’s not true. I have no idea what he’s talking abou—_

Parrish ended the call and handed the phone back to its owner.

“That’s how you get a nosey teenager off your back.”

He smirked at the shocked look on the Sheriff’s face. He moved to leave the office, relief transforming into a newfound confidence. He turned at the last second, wasn’t ready for the tidal crash of emotions that the amused, fond, awed expression on the Sheriff’s face caused to rock into him, managed to withstand the pressure. “Don’t think you’re getting let off the hook completely, Sheriff. We’re going to that new sandwich bar for lunch. I hope you like bread and salad.”

The Sheriff set the phone on his desk; eyes darkened in the filtered light of the office. “I’ll meet you at your desk at twelve.”

Parrish walked out of his office.

They did this at least once or twice a week. Not the Stiles part, but they did have lunch together when their breaks lined up, and Parrish wasn’t swamped with work. Sometimes all they did was sit outside the building, homemade food on their laps and the atmosphere easy.

They talked about Stiles, and college. About Derek, the pack, anything remotely supernatural. They also talked about themselves. There came a point in their conversations where _to not_ talk about themselves would’ve been too obvious, too stilted and impersonal.

Parrish liked it. He liked having the Sheriff’s attention, holding it in his palms and clutching tightly. His eyes would always be incredibly warm despite their blueness, twinkling when he shared something about Stiles as a kid, or laughing when Parrish told a story from the army.

He even talked about Claudia when the food was eaten, and it was just them sitting beside each other, both pairs of eyes seldom focusing on the other, but each still listening, waiting.

“She would’ve smacked you, sometimes, with the way you approach cases,” The Sheriff told him.

He looked at him quizzically.

“You’re so clinical about the whole thing, all the time.” The Sheriff peered at him, empty wrappers in his lap. “You know, I’ve never once seen you cry. Not even at a murder scene. All the other deputies, they’ve cried out of fear, or disgust, or anger. But not you.”

“Was she the type to say bottling up one’s emotions only causes further heart ache?”

“Yeah. I guess it’s rather hypocritical of me to point out.” He took a swig of his fruit juice.

“When I was in the army dismantling a bomb in under twenty seconds didn’t really lend itself to the gushy type.”

“’The gushy type’. That’s what I used to call them. When you don’t cry at all you forget how.”

He looked up at the Sheriff. “Is this a PSA? I haven’t got my notebook on me.”

Letting out a dry chuckle, the Sheriff shook his head. “You try to do one good deed, and the hounds bark your head off. No, scrap that. The hounds would do a better job at taking their superior’s words on board.”

He huffed in dismay. “Are you telling me that this whole time I thought we were having a friendly conversation you were looking for the opportune moment to feed me some Chinese cracker line? Not that it’s not extremely truthful, and your wife was incredibly wise, sir.”

He felt the vibration of the laugh, rather than hearing it.

“I can’t believe I let you get away with half of what I should.”

It was muttered, and clearly not meant for his ears, but he still picked up on it. He felt, rather than heard that, too.

It was a Saturday evening when he bumped into the Sheriff at the supermarket. He tried to peer surreptitiously into his shopping cart while smiling pleasantly and normally.

“Oh,” he said, happily surprized, “you have the yoghurt and granola.”

The Sheriff looked at him strangely. “I do…”

“Uh,” he frantically wracked his brain for something to cover his slip-up, “the Greek yoghurt that I can never find the brand of! And the, um, granola.” Which was the store’s own, but at least the lie was half-believable. He hoped.

“I can show you if you want.” The Sheriff still appeared slightly bemused, hands resting on the handle of his cart and bearing the brunt of his weight.

“That’s okay, sir. Just glad we could share in the delights of such…dairy.”

He was stupid. His utter and complete stupidity knew no bounds, and he wished the universe could do him the simple favour of striking him down before he could open his mouth.

But the Sheriff was just nodding, an amused, knowing curl to the corner of his mouth. “Well, in that case, deputy. Would you be interested in joining me for a meal sometime? We could include the dairy.”

The store was cold from all the refrigerated air blowing out of the aisles, but he lit up inside like the fourth of July. It was a pleasant balance: the feeling of heat and cold co-existing without over-powering the other.

“Maybe not the dairy, sir. We could do steak if you haven’t already had it this week. I mean, not that you _can’t_ have steak more than once a week. It’s perfectly legal, if not a little pricey.”

“Imagine such a cruel world where eating steak was illegal.” He laughed warmly. “But actually, Stiles prefers it to be limited to once a week, and I just go along with him.”

“It’s easier that way,” he agreed, congratulating himself for narrowly dodging yet another self-inflicted bullet. “And steak shouldn’t be the staple food of a diet.”

“Look at you! You should have a conversation with my son. I think you’d find you both have a similar belief system.”

_You have no idea how similar_ , he thought miserably.

“Anyway, I need to run this home, but I’ll get back to you on a date. Is that alright?”

Parrish nodded, forcing himself to maintain some degree of eye contact without flailing around like a rag in the wind. “Yes, sir. I’ll look forward to it.”

That, technically, wasn’t a lie. Because although what he was feeling wasn’t exactly positive, he still craved for all the Sheriff’s attention. And receiving that while at work with multiple other deputies was impossible. Not to the intensity to which would satisfy him.

He was, he was learning about himself, easily and horribly addicted to things both unobtainable and inefficacious, leaving him to consider the futile and unfair nature of pipe dreams.

He spent the week working himself into a tizzy. Even Kelly asked him one day at work if he wanted to join her for a meditation class at her gym.

He’d caught the Sheriff observing him with a quiet contemplation a couple times, and he wanted to shout at him. _This is all your fault,_ he wanted to say, _is that lost on you? Everything you’ve put me through, is that lost on you?_

He wished he could understand the machinations of their relationship. It was more than an acquaintanceship, but the extent to which it wasn’t—for him—he wasn’t sure was lost or not on the Sheriff. Raise a glass to everything he didn’t understand.

There was a moment when he debated telling Stiles. He wasn’t sure whether it was bragging, ‘look, I _can_ monitor your dad’, or something else. Something too heated for his mind to work over, burning the little cogs of his brain when he tried. So, he didn’t tell anyone. Let it permeate his dreams until he woke up hot and cold and gasping for breath.

Life carried on as normal: strange lumps of tar and molten objects being uncovered across town on people’s doorsteps. Beacon Hills normal. He and a few other deputies worked over-time, rushing from house to house with a team of biologists and chemists McCall had sent.

Scott and his pack helped too, slinking around after dark with glowing eyes and conferring with the suspicious veterinarian hailing from an equally suspicious clinic. No clinic he knew housed such rare, dangerous raw ingredients likely to cast an entire town back in time if concocted incorrectly.

In the end, it was Deaton’s rare ingredients that shed some light on the situation, and Stiles all the way in another state.

_It’s probably some kind of troll_ , he said over the phone, sounding equal parts curious and bored, _think Never-Ending Story, but with stones and who-knows-what being regurgitated after it has eaten._

“Why would it throw up on people’s doorsteps?” Parrish had asked, frustrated. “Is it displeased with the local food service? I rather liked our rocks.”

Stiles had sounded like he was rolling his eyes. _They’re rocks. Try not to be too offended. It might be marking its territory, though. Like an animal. But an infinitely scarier, bigger, grumpier, unpredictable—_

“Yeah,” he interrupted, “I got it, thanks. So, we’ve essentially a massive chihuahua that vomits lava, but hey, at least we’ve got a vet!”

_You sound mad. Are you mad? Listen, dude, I share your exact feelings about Deaton, but sometimes he knows his stuff. Just ignore him when he’s on his cryptic bullshit and he should be fine._

He had sighed, closing his eyes for just a moment and rested his forehead on the top of the squad car. “Okay, thanks, Stiles.”

_No problem. I gotta say, you sound a lot calmer about the whole situation than Derek._

“You talk to Derek?” Then, “Derek sounds unsettled?”

Stiles had laughed. _Not exactly. We chat sometimes. And it’s only because I’m well-versed in Derek-speak that I can even pick up on it. You should arrange a meet-up with him, you, Deaton, and Scott. I’m sure all your fantastically little nerdy brains will figure something out._

“What do you think we’ve been doing? And your dad’s helping as well. He insisted. Now that he knows about all this supernatural stuff, it’s kinda hard to convince him it’s simple vandalism.”

_My dad’s on the case?! Parrish, no. You’ve gotta get him out of the way. He’ll get hurt._

“Derek and I are watching him. He’ll be fine. It’s not like we’re anywhere close to catching this thing.”

There were a few beats of silence, and then Stiles’ voice, oddly quiet and vulnerable, said: _Derek’s watching him, too?_

“Yeah,” he had answered, feeling suddenly awkward. “He offered. Is that a problem?”

_No_ , oddly muffled, _just make sure my dad doesn’t get hurt. Or, just anyone, really._

He hadn’t needed to be told twice.

Deaton’s highly suspicious cocktail of various ingredients Parrish had never laid eyes on before ended up ridding the town of the troll. For some reason, it produced a stench utterly repulsive to the creature, removing any of its desire to claim Beacon Hills as its territory. Parrish had been the one to deliver the last blow, waving a rag drenched in the stuff in front of the troll’s nose. Its ugly, bloated features had twisted in disgust before it barrelled, eyes watering and mouth panting, into the preserve and out of sight.

Derek turned on him soon after, eyes glowing angrily. “You shouldn’t have done that. It could have torn you to pieces if it had chosen you as its target. What would I have told Stiles, if all that was left of you was a pile of skin and bones?”

Stiles, he was beginning to realise, was mysteriously omnipotent in a way Deaton only ever dreamed of.

_He’d made them all promise to look out for the other._ He wondered, foolishly, if the Sheriff had made the same promise.

Derek’s scolding in no way prepared him for the burning, torturous mess of the Sheriff’s.

“Deputy,” he began, voice slicing through the air, “would you mind coming with me for a moment.” It wasn’t a question. Parrish felt his stomach drop.

He nodded, forcing his eyes to remain at level with the Sheriff’s. Derek was man enough to wince slightly when their eyes met, briefly, over the Sheriff’s shoulder, but he didn’t express anything other than that; reticent as always.

When they had rounded the corner of a disused, industrial building which had perhaps been used as a type of warehouse in the past, the Sheriff stopped. The muscles in his back were taut, the line of his body tight and non-relinquishing.

He squared himself, mentally, for the worst berating he would probably receive, ever, in his existence.

“Parrish,” the Sheriff said, and now his voice was a cool mask of calm, deceptively impassive except for the betrayal of his hands, clenched into fists by his sides. “Would you care to explain what you were thinking—before I have you chained to desk duty until Kingdom come. You have thirty seconds.”

He knew this was difficult for the Sheriff. The waiting, the forced patience, the fairness.

The fairness made him want to cry. Because he’d put himself in harm’s way—no, more than that, he’d almost been _killed_ —and the Sheriff’s modus operandi, his instinctual response, was to hear out his reasoning before coming to a swift, just judgement.

“Sir, I—” he took a deep breath, willed the intensity of such ugly emotions to dull. There were heart-stopping seconds of silence in which he was sure all heat had been leached from the world. “I—I don’t know.” The words thudded into the shield between them; threatened to shatter the sphere. “I wish I could tell you what I was thinking, but I—I wasn’t.”

When he spoke, the Sheriff’s voice was grave. “I see, Parrish. Nothing else to justify your reckless actions? Nothing at all?”

_I wanted to keep you safe, sir_.

But he’d never say those cruel words.

“No, sir.” His eyes had been trained on the Sheriff’s the entire time, because as pitiful as he was in that moment, he would never let that mutual respect, the kind the Sheriff drilled into his deputies, dissipate like cheap perfume.

He was sure it had been over thirty seconds, yet still he was allowed to gather his thoughts, to try and explain himself. He wasn’t sure if it was justice or pure sadism.

The Sheriff sighed, eyes weary from not just the skirmish with the troll. “Do you remember what I told you last time?”

His heart jumped into his throat—that was the only explanation for the agonising ball he couldn’t swallow around.

The moment stretched thin between them, like string. Or a single human hair, which was the thinnest object on earth and still so strong, but even that could snap. He was waiting for the snap.

When he nodded stiffly, the Sheriff continued:

“Suspension. I hate to have to do this, Parrish. But I have to stick to my word.”

“I know, sir.”

“A month. Two weeks at first, then a review. And you’ll visit a therapist. This can’t keep happening, you can’t keep protecting everyone but yourself.”

Because the Sheriff _knew_ him, and it really, really hurt to have himself bared so painfully open without reprieve. It was exhibitionistic and destroying to be the only one so vulnerable.

“I understand. When I come back will I be given desk duty?”

“You bet your ass you will. Even Strauss will have more cases than you will.”

It was a kick to the stomach, but he didn’t fight it, just nodded again.

“But, Parrish,” and the unfamiliar colour of his eyes was galling, “well done for getting rid of it. I’ll say that much.”

He felt a warmth so weak it may as well have been non-existent spark to life in the pit of his stomach. “It was a team effort, Sheriff.”

Being at home, alone, was hard. It was difficult the first day, and it was torture by the fifth. The end of the first week marked a milestone. He visited the therapist all deputies were referred to when starting work at the station. His name was Andrew, but he refrained from calling him anything.

It wasn’t easy to talk with him. Not because of what he was feeling, although that was a sandstorm of confusion, but because it was difficult to paraphrase, to talk around the supernatural like it wasn’t one of the driving forces behind his trauma. No other, severely revised, situation quite captured the intensity of what fighting chimeras, demons, ghost riders, _trolls_ , did to a person. Even if they were trained as a police officer first and foremost.

He found himself explaining that it was like he couldn’t get warm no matter what he did, and then confused himself by stating, in the same breath, that he never felt _cool_ either. It was binary, with a wide spectrum stretching out within him between either extremity that he couldn’t traverse and didn’t understand.

He went to the Sheriff’s house, once, when the guilt became too much. Found another pack of beer that wasn’t accounted for on Stiles’ list. He left straight away. What Stiles didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Graeme sent him a strongly worded text outlining all the things she was going to do to him for leaving her alone with Kelly and Strauss, ending with ‘lots of love’ which radiated mixed signals and made his head hurt.

Even Derek sent a message. It read:

I can look after myself. Are you doing okay.

Without the question mark, it read as vaguely threatening, but he appreciated the thought behind it. They arranged to meet up for a couple drinks, and Derek even sent a thumbs up at one point in the conversation. He liked Derek. (Thought he was emotionally constipated, terrifyingly so, but when it came to existing in each other’s space without expectation, Derek was the man.) The silences between them were punctuated with meaningful conversation, like if you took out all the useless hum of background noise and raised the volume on the important things, like heartbeats and laughter.

He didn’t see the Sheriff for two weeks. There was an email, a simple check-up, a touch-bases style of communication to ensure he was meeting with Andrew, but nothing else. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear, anyway. It felt like a slap to the face for their growing connection to suddenly disintegrate into ‘Regards, Parrish’ or ‘Best Wishes, the department’.

When he fell asleep, there was only ever himself to keep warm. The voice was there, but faded, focused solely on its own survival that it didn’t contain the energy to lend him some of that warmth. He only ever wanted a little—or at least, that’s what he told himself, lied about to himself. The reality was he liked the burning, the sensation of heat, heat, heat in every cell of his body. He didn’t like burning by himself though when there was nothing to sooth the blisters. The voice was also coolness, and he couldn’t have that, either. Wounds weren’t wounds with nobody to praise him for them.

~*~

A month passed, and he saw Graeme, Kelly, Derek, his mom, on a spontaneous trip out of state. He didn’t see the Sheriff. As he got ready in the mirror on his first day back at work, the nervousness clawing up his body from the inside out threatened to tear him to shreds. It wasn’t helpful, wasn’t even rational. He still had the job he worked _hard_ at, the friends he’d made—although maybe that wasn’t quite true. He felt like he’d lost someone, was going through the heartbreak of losing someone with that person no more than a mile away. Felt cut loose, like all that was lost on that someone.

He grabbed his keys and phone, decided to buy lunch that day, leaving the house and locking the front door behind him with a final ‘click’. If existing out of one’s skin was a thing, he was doing it right now. Thought that if he looked down, there’d be an invisible force controlling the gear stick.

Graeme took one look at him as he entered the station and rushed out from around her desk to hug him. He received the embrace with only a slight grimace, hissed at her through gritted teeth to stop before they embarrassed themselves. His reputation was already suffering from the suspension; he didn’t need Strauss and Ainsley gossiping about him in the records room.

“Anyone steal your milk while I was gone?” he said, allowing her to walk him to his desk graciously.

She nodded, placed herself on the top of his desk, legs kicking at the air. “Means you aren’t the culprit…although, you could have snuck in when I was distracted. I wouldn’t put it past you. I know the type.”

He was busy laughing when the Sheriff walked into the station, stifling a yawn, and made his way to his office.

“Parrish,” he said pleasantly, and the warm timbre coiled around his heart, squeezed it painfully. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied earnestly. “It’s good to be back.”

“Already? Wow, I must have severely underestimated your love for this godforsaken place.” He shook his head, but his eyes were twinkling, so honestly blue it hurt to look at them. “See me in my office later. We’ll go over a last few things.”

“Yes, Sheriff.” He couldn’t stop grinning, despite feeling that the rug would be pulled out from under him at any moment.

The Sheriff left, trousers fluttering slightly about his legs.

Graeme looked between them then said, somewhat accusingly, “He was a right bear these past few weeks, and now you’ve got him smiling in under twenty seconds flat. What is it about you, deputy Parrish?”

He refused to blush. “He’s probably glad to have another person to boss around.”

“Yeah,” Graeme stared after the Sheriff for a moment too long, “that must be it. Listen, we should do something to celebrate. Leave it to me.”

There was no use in arguing, so he just logged onto his computer with a smile playing around the corner of his mouth that refused to fade.

The Sheriff had asked him ‘round his house. To catch up.

The sphere elongated, enlarged to fit him in, closed tight around them.

“I’ve asked Derek, as well,” he said, leaning on the desk behind him. His hips were cocked, and there was a genuine caring in his eyes as he spoke that made Parrish want to cry, because he was so perfect, and he couldn’t have him.

He wished he was brave enough to say _fuck it_ , to let his body feel the heat it had been missing for so long. But the sphere was so nice and warm and he didn’t want to be ejected out.

“Of course, sir,” he said, even though he felt like dying because this wasn’t like before, but it was more than he’d had in the past month. “I haven’t seen him in a couple weeks.”

The Sheriff’s eyes glinted. “We could have that steak.”

“You know what I have to say in response to that.”

He chuckled, moved across his desk for a stack of paperwork and handed it to him. “This is what you missed. The seemingly ‘supernatural’ cases. Have a look through, won’t you?”

“Will do. And sir, what time?”

“Seven’s fine. Should I serve Derek’s bloody?”

Parrish laughed. “We just call that extremely rare around here.”

He shook his head. The light streaming into the office did a good job of creating him a rudimentary halo. “You know, I don’t actually think I missed you much. It’s been peaceful, all my deputies too well-trained to speak to me.”

“Sir, I _know_ that isn’t true. Graeme is living testament to that.”

“No, actually. Graeme, at least, has the decency to pretend to be in fear of me. Go and do your job, deputy.”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

When he walked up the Stilinskis’ drive, Derek’s Camaro was already parked, an imposing black figure in a suburban neighbourhood.

He knocked on the front door, waited with his hands in his pockets. He’d had time to shower and change, a pair of jeans far more comfortable than his heavy belt and work-issued pants. The nights were getting cooler now, and he hunched slightly, replaying the last few weeks on repeat. He could carry a conversation with the both of them. It would be fine. Derek would be his nonverbal self, and the Sheriff’s eyes would twinkle enough for all of them.

The door opened, and the Sheriff appeared just beyond the doorway, beer bottle in hand.

“Parrish,” he greeted, and gestured inside. “You’re on time.”

He looked at him quizzically as he walked in, shuffling slightly on the doormat.

“Derek got here half an hour ago. Swear the kid doesn’t own a watch. He’s out back.”

“Yeah, the number of times he’s just shown up at mine or Stiles’ wi—” he realised who he was speaking to and decided to close his mouth instead.

“Right…we’re barbecuing. Despite it being 65’ outside.”

He laughed, congratulating himself on acting like a normal human being. So far. “I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to bring anything, so I didn’t bring anything.”

He was given an amused look, then ushered into the garden to ‘loosen Derek up’.

“Sir?”

“He’s still wary around me because of the whole murderer thing. And my being related to Stiles probably doesn’t help. Just get him feeling comfortable so I can speak to him without him looking at me like _I’m_ the werewolf.”

“Sir,” he winced, but still moving out through the open backdoor, “werewolf hearing. And I’m sure he’s just worrying about whether you’ll cook his steak well.”

Derek was staring at a tree, frowning slightly, but he did smile at Parrish.

“Sorry,” he mouthed, and Derek’s mouth quirked into a half smile. “He means well. You should complain about the steak, though. To make a point.”

“I—Stilinskis are strange.”

Parrish hummed non-committedly around the mouth of the bottle the Sheriff had pressed into his hand.

“In a self-sacrificing, saving-the-world, die-trying kind of way, I guess.” He sat in a camp chair, stared at the small fire in the barbeque. It was dark, basically, the coals glowing prettily like fairy lights.

“How’s Cora? Have you seen her lately?” He rolled his eyes at Derek’s hard stare. “I’m just asking, man. Don’t be gross.”

“Well forgive me for being wary—” Derek’s lips twitched, and he knew he’d caught the unintentional pun— “but one of my closest living relatives is _Peter_.”

“Did he—” Parrish started, horrified, but Derek’s eyebrows did a complicated twist and furrow, resembling a negative.

“ _No_. But it’s not just wolves who can be awful.”

Parrish didn’t let himself feel offended, because he knew Derek hadn’t meant it like that, meant _he_ was like that. “Sure.” He shrugged. “I’m a police officer, I get it. Probably more than anyone else. I was just wondering if you were still in contact with her.”

“We speak.” Derek stared into the fire moodily. “She told me I wasn’t as easy to annoy anymore. I blame Stiles.”

“What do you blame on Stiles? Although it’s probably warranted.” The Sheriff walked over to them; a platter balanced in one hand. He proceeded to lay the meat gently onto the grill with deft fingers.

“Uh,” Derek said.

Parrish was beginning to see where the Sheriff was coming from. “He was saying he’s had to begin speaking more as a defence mechanism.”

“That’s my son,” the Sheriff said fondly. He sat back in his chair and took a sip of his beer.

Parrish had to wonder at the sight they made. Never would he have guessed he’d ever feel comfortable sitting around a barbeque with Derek Hale, werewolf/ex-murderer, and Sheriff Stilinski, his name speaking for itself. It was warm in more ways than tame flames accounted for. All the weeks he’d spent wallowing in his house suddenly felt inconsequential.

By the time, the meat was ready they were conversing freely, the Sheriff even getting Derek to omit a few ominous, low chuckles.

“Rare, boys?” the Sheriff asked, glint in his eyes from the glow of the coals.

They’d nodded, and Parrish had hastily thrown a salad together in the kitchen.

“Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you were trying to do, sir,” he’d said, poking his head through the doorway with a lettuce in his hands. “You’re getting greens, no way around it.”

“It’s like having a second Stiles,” the Sheriff told Derek, and it was a good thing he was in the kitchen out of earshot otherwise he’d have chopped his finger instead of the lettuce out of panic.

The Sheriff served the meat with a pair of tongs, and Parrish dished out his salad in generous helpings.

“Even big werewolves need their vitamins,” he commented, smirking at Derek and purposefully fishing for a spoonful devoid of anything other than kale leaves.

Derek replied with a good-natured, “Fuck off,” then began dutifully chewing through the small mound on his plate.

“Sir? Can I just—" Parrish said, leaning slightly over the Sheriff to get to his plate. The body beneath him stiffened faintly—a barely perceptible tightening of muscle before he relaxed again.

Derek looked up from his food, nostrils flaring. His eyes widened, and Parrish wanted to die, because he’d _forgotten_ about the whole wolfy sense of smell. But Derek wasn’t looking at him, and the moment was over so quickly he just had time to step back and swiftly retreat to his chair.

He had to force himself to focus on his food, barely looking up as he stuffed forkful after forkful at an alarming rate.

Derek had him beat, though, churning his meat at something close to the speed of light. He practically gargled the last helping of salad, before leaping up from his seat and bidding the Sheriff a hasty goodbye and thanking him for the food, leaving through the kitchen almost half-wolfed out.

He could sympathise somewhat; it had taken him a _long_ time to get used to the idea and with his enhanced senses poor Derek must have been thrown into the deep end. A smaller part of him was determined on congratulating himself on hiding it this long. Ignoring the fact that Derek hadn’t ever really spent prolonged periods of time with just the two of them. His mind was doing anything to distract itself.

“Maybe he left the oven on,” he joked, but it was a weak effort.

The Sheriff smiled faintly, the sphere around them constricting with fluctuating levels of heat.

“Should we talk about my suspension?” He tried, “Or am I off the hook?”

There was a silence where the coals glowed and his heartbeat in tune with the smoke curling into the air.

“Sir?” he tried again, turning to find the Sheriff looking at him quietly.

“Parrish, I—” the Sheriff sounded frustrated, with himself or Parrish, he wasn’t sure. “You—I just—”

Then he was suddenly in Parrish’s space, and the fire glinted desperately off his pupils, or, he realised with a thrill, there was a real heat emanating there, burning furiously.

“Can I, please can I just have this?”

He nodded mutely, feeling overwhelmed with an emotion he couldn’t name.

The Sheriff surged forward, or he did, both meeting in the middle, lighting up like sparks.

“Sir, if you’re going to kiss me, then please, please make me forget my name,” he whispered. The touch of lips on his at last made his eyes roll back. He pulled the Sheriff flush to him, but the position was awkward, so he thought _fuck it_ , and tumbled out of his chair onto the grass, dragging the warm body with him.

The Sheriff chuckled into his mouth and flicked their tongues together. “Is this okay?”

“Yes! Yes! Please, just—” he hooked a leg over the Sheriff’s body, pulled him closer until he was seeing stars— “sir, _please_.”

“How about John, hmm?” Nipped at his cupid’s bow until he was gasping. “Could you remember that?”

He huffed into the kisses, tried to lean in for more, but there was an arm on his chest, pressing him into the ground.

The Sheriff teased the lobe of his ear with his teeth. “What do you _say_ , deputy?”

Parrish made a frustrated noise into the night, along with the crackling simmer of the coals on the fire. “John!” He choked on his words when the tongue moved down his neck. “Please, yes, please. There! No! Wait, _please_.”

John chuckled against his skin. “Oh, you don’t know what you want, do you?”

He pulled back, looked down at Parrish.

“I know I want you to call me Jordan.” He didn’t know how he managed to voice the words without them quivering out like notes off a broken instrument.

“Really? And what if I called you something else—like baby, oh you like that?” he said when Jordan moaned then flushed red hot. “Or what about sweetheart? Doll? My little doll. There we go, baby.”

They were kissing in earnest now, John’s words punctuating the spaces where their mouths couldn’t quite fit together. The heat was burning, steaming when it touched the cool grass Jordan was stretched out on, clothes dragging in the dirt. He’d never felt this hot. And cool.

He briefly spared a thought for the Sheriff’s neighbours, cast it aside, then flushed brightly as he let out another moan. “John, wait. Wait.” John stopped instantly, glanced at him questioningly. “Your neighbours they—I can’t—”

He started to smirk teasingly. “You can’t what, baby? Can’t keep quiet?”

At Jordan’s embarrassed nod, he shifted, broadening the space between them until he was sat back on his haunches.

“Let’s get inside. I’m nowhere near finished with you.” He stood up with some difficulty, lowered a hand to pull him up. “Such a good boy for telling me.”

Jordan stumbled over his own feet.

They made it inside, the Sheriff kicking the backdoor closed behind him. They almost settled on the kitchen table because he looked at John a certain way which meant he was kissed silly against the fridge.

“Jords, you’ve gotta stop. Let’s get upsta—” he tripped up the first step and Jordan started laughing, then he stumbled over the same stair and then they were both breathless with laughter, Jordan clutching at the bannister so he wouldn’t fall.

The sphere was so incredibly tight around them, lighting up with flashes of heat like lightning arched through the sky.

There was something bothering him, though. Something niggling at the back of his mind.

“I need to tell you something,” he said before he could chicken out, distract himself with kisses that made his toes curl. John paused to stare at him. His hair was tousled from Jordan’s fingers, pupils blown wide.

There was a worried expression inching onto his face, like if you’d just given someone a gift they were afraid would be taken away from them.

“I, uh, haven’t been completely honest with you. Stiles asked me something before he left, and I said yes.”

The worried expression had taken over his face.

“He asked me to look out for you—not like tha—this,” he cried, when John drew away from him. “Just to make sure you were, uh, eating properly. He sent me a list. And—” here was the crux— “a key. To the house.” He winced, let his eyes remain trained firmly on the floor. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t supposed to go this far. _I_ wasn’t supposed to go this far and let myself do this…with you.”

John had been silent, listening to him with reserved judgement, patient as always, and he wanted to cry to release the build-up of temperatures inside his body.

He loved him, he realised, and they were teetering on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the heat to tip them over gently.

“The key was to check you were buying the correct groceries on the list,” he said because he couldn’t bear the silence.

“I got that, Jordan.” The Sheriff leaned against the doorframe, and his arms looked so warm and strong and he wanted to feel them around his body so badly. “But this, this wasn’t to get me t—I don’t _how_ it would, but this wasn’t—”

“No! _No_. This was all me.” He flushed again. “I’ve wanted this for—so long, that I forgot to stop myself. If you are upset then be mad at me for that, but please don’t be mad at me for this.”

This time, he was looked at with a mixture of the same warmness and frustration.

“I knew, you idiot.” John had a hand on his forehead, rubbing with the pads of his fingers. “I _knew_. You were so obvious, Jords, but I liked it. I liked you fussing, pretended it was normal. Pretended you were doing it just because you wanted to, and not because my son asked you to.”

“I slept in your bed,” he blurted out, then felt the blood drain from his face. He spun on his heel, made for the stairs blindly. John reached for him, but he was already halfway down the staircase, could be fast when he wanted, heading for anywhere the cold and the heat didn’t stab at the soft matter of his heart.

“Jordan!” John called out, chasing after him. “Jordan, get back here!” He stumbled down the stairs. The house was still more dark than light, the only light being that from the kitchen. “I know you’re upset, but it’s fine.”

Parrish was so embarrassed he couldn’t breathe, barrelling through the front door and tumbling towards his car.

Derek’s Camaro was still parked in, where he must have left it when he made his impromptu exit, too awkward to go back and ask Parrish to move, and it would have been funny if he could think straight.

He had a good few seconds on the Sheriff, used them to swing his car out of the drive. He knew he was being reckless; but the further away he got, the less he would have to face up to.

“Jordan!” John called again, in a last, desperate attempt at stopping him. He ran out of the house and froze.

He took the car out of reverse, sped off into the night, knowing it was stupid, he was pathetic, but the memory of heat was too much to handle when it was within arm’s length, yet still out of reach.

~*~

He slowly sunk behind the monitor of his computer. There were a few moments when he’d lain in bed that morning and seriously considered calling in sick. He felt it, emotionally.

Kelly walked past his desk, sparing him an unimpressed look. “What’s with you?”

The last thing he felt like doing was talking to Kelly, who was even louder than Tara, and just as nosey. “Nothing.” He sunk in his chair.

“Riight. Well, I’m too busy doing _work_ to harass you over what is _simply not true_. Have a donut or something.” She patted him on the head like a toddler, left for the records room. He hoped she wouldn’t find the file she needed.

“I don’t want your pity donuts!” he shouted after her, then almost choked on his tongue when he saw who was chatting to Tara at the reception desk. A shiver ran up the length of his body when he remembered those hands, how they’d felt around his wrists, over his stomach.

The Sheriff was supposed to have Mondays off—Parrish was certain of that—yet there he was. A familiar warmth was bleeding from him, about him. A shield of heat. And now he knew what stepping inside that shield felt like, and it was all he could think about; he’d read the same line three times, words blurring, taking the shape of hot breaths and desperate whispers.

_No, no, no, no, no._

He’d needed to think. To readjust to actually _knowing_ what he’d known deep down already. There was that moment where he’d let himself have what he wanted, and now it was back to reality. That was life. He should be thanking anything and everything that he could’ve tasted it in the first place. Even if was only for the blink of an eye. He’d known it would be futile to have something with the Sheriff. It was—he was his boss, and there was that power imbalance, never-mind the dreaded _professionalism_ word. So, he’d let himself have the kissing. And the laughing. And the almost—.

But, in true, achingly human fashion, he wasn’t satisfied with just that now that he’d had it. It was more than enough when it could be all the time. But for just one night? Never.

Maybe he should be thanking the bed thing, too. It had pulled him to his senses, tied the connection tight with a mangled knot threatening to unravel in the slightest breeze. He’d been reminded how awfully out of his depth he was: just a person falling asleep in someone else’s bed to feel a warmth that felt horribly similar to comfort.

Tara was smiling enough for the both of them. She’d always looked up to the Sheriff; they all did.

He wanted to smile too. This cold was splintering him from the inside out. Like his lungs were icicles and puncturing jagged holes through his flesh every time he breathed, invisible daggers that sliced and gnarled until he wished he could plunge a hand into his chest and wrench his heart out into the air.

Because if the universe hadn’t wanted him to love John Stilinski, it shouldn’t have given him a beating heart.

He looked up then, and the Sheriff was looking straight at him. John said something to Tara, his eyes not leaving Jordan. She replied with something that made him nod slowly.

Then he smiled so softly and warmly, right at Jordan, and left. The doors clanged after him.

Tara came over to him with a note. It was just white paper, so standard it was nondescript. “Please read it,” she said, “even though he told me to tell you that if you wanted, you could chuck it straight in the trash.” For once, she minded her own business and left.

He flipped through several reports first. Got up to make himself a coffee. The night before the deputies on shift had dealt with a few petty robberies, and one incident of public disorderly behaviour. It didn’t lend him much in the way of distraction.

Eventually he was back behind his desk and gazing at the note. Damn desk duty.

He tentatively reached for it, opening the folds and read it.

_Take all the time you need._

It made tears well up in his eyes instantly, and he blinked them back irritably. To have someone who understood him so well—or at least, took the time to even guess at what he needed or wanted, it was…warm. And cool. A cocktail of temperatures burst under his skin, spreading through his bloodstream.

It wasn’t the time he needed, though, it was what those six simple words proved. They were proof of the man he’d fallen in love with (consciously/unconsciously, it was hard to tell.) The man who was infallibly patient and kind-hearted, who—in the few minutes they’d been centimetres apart, and even when they weren’t—had the awful ability at making him want to drop to his knees out of gratitude, to thank the universe for letting him have this one—even if it was platonic and professional, even at a distance—and the enormity of the feelings rushing through him at the thought that at least he got to kiss John once (or a thousand times). There were people who would never even get that.

It was a peculiar experience, being grateful to nothing for feeling everything. The stars couldn’t hold a candle to John Stilinski.

So, he pushed aside what had made him run away in the first place, allowed himself to bask in the knowledge that even if they couldn’t make it through together, the man he’d chosen was just as good, just as pure and honest as he’d first guessed, and the goodness at the start was only a hint at the multitudes within; really, perhaps he could even be grateful to himself, for having an unwavering faith in that goodness, and letting himself fall deeply. It was a soul-deep pleasure to have his loving someone be proven prudent.

He went home. Let himself in at the front door, clothes weighing unfamiliarly heavy on his body.

The kitchen was as he’d left it that morning: a plate and two mugs in the sink from where he’d been running late. He almost _never_ ran late for work. There was a stillness to the scene, and he felt like an intruder in his own home—if only for a moment—before he dropped his keys and phone on the counter and walked to the sink. He ran hot water and cold water at the same time; two steady streams amalgamating around his fists.

Droplets formed on the plate and he watched them slide down the china in a race of gravity and insignificance. He wished he was like those droplets—just for a moment—where he could drop, drop, _drip_ —then realised he _could_. He slid down the cupboard, felt the wood against his body, coming to a stop on the cold tiles. He turned, so his back was against the cupboard under the sink and drew his knees towards his body. There was a silence, then he realised he was crying. Drip, drip, drip onto the tiled floor. They were heavier than the droplets on the plate, weighed him down into the wood against his back.

But with the water droplets on the china, they stopped when they reached the edge of the plate, when gravity no longer had an influence over them. The tears were different: they kept dripping, kept falling and falling, pulling him under and under until he was the puddle on the floor.

It was relieving. To surrender his bones and tissue for a few moments, and just lie on the floor among the water.

After a bit he moved to stand up, unfolding before he turned into a stalagmite. Finished washing the mugs, found a knife that needed cleaning too.

Then he took himself into the shower and afterwards tumbled into bed. It wasn’t quite the same as sleeping in John’s bed, but for once he didn’t dream.

“What was the paramedic’s report?” he asked Strauss, having pulled the other deputy to the side.

Strauss pulled out the department-issued tablet and tapped at it a few times. “Male. Thirty years old. No sign of intoxication. We’re checking the brakes for any sign of wear, but honestly when a deer appears in front of you when you’re going fifty, there’s not much you can do except pray.”

“Right.” He massaged his temples. “What are his injuries?”

“Nothing life-threatening. Whiplash, obviously, maybe a fractured collar bone.”

Parrish nodded. He needed to speak to the man, but he’d wait enough time for him to be treated for shock. “Good work, deputy.”

“Will Hale show up?”

He looked strangely at Strauss. “Whatever for? He isn’t police.”

Strauss had the grace to look away sheepishly. “No reason.”

He watched the other deputy walk back onto the scene, thinking to himself. He would be calling Derek, but only after the deputies left. It was a good thing he’d arrived on his own. Strauss did seem to have a strange obsession with Derek, but he’d figured it was due to the charges against his name that had been dropped. He’d have to speak to the Sheriff.

The Sheriff, who was over in the next town responding to a call for back-up.

They hadn’t spoken over the past week, except to briefly discuss something about work. Other than that, they’d given each other a wide berth in the station. That didn’t mean the Sheriff was cold to him: John had kept doing small things that made him want to whisper _fuck it_ and jump him. Little things like making sure the cheap coffee machine started when he noticed Jordan preparing to leave his desk, or placing reports on Jordan’s desk in easy, manageable piles in order of importance, sticky notes with extra details on top.

Even _Ainsley_ had noticed and shot him a questioning glance when instead of popping his head into the Sheriff’s office as he left, he headed straight out of the station.

He shook his head and reached into his pocket for his phone. Called Derek and waited for him to arrive, watching the mutilated carcass of the deer bleed out onto the road. It was just a deer, but it had had red eyes and suspicious puncture marks dotting its body. He sighed and reached for his phone again. Best call the creepy vet as well.

Derek sniffed at the carcass, then stuck his finger into one of the punctures. Parrish was instantly glad the other deputies had left, taking Strauss with them.

“It could be a mountain lion,” he said, then smirked. He’d gotten over his initial embarrassment from the awkward barbeque at the Sheriff’s and was back to his usual asshole-self.

“Derek,” Parrish said, refusing to plead. “Do you have _any_ idea what could have done this? Its eyes were red, for Pete’s sake.”

“Maybe it hadn’t been sleeping.”

He peered at Derek. “Have you been speaking to Stiles? It sounds like you’ve been speaking to Stiles.”

Derek suddenly looked caged where he was crouching next to the deer. “No?... _No._ Maybe Deaton should have a look. I just don’t know enough about this stuff. Not like Peter.”

He snorted. “There is no way in hell I would ever confer with your uncle, I’ve heard the stories. No offense.”

Sniffing as if to clear his nose, Derek stood. “None taken. Want me to run this over to the surgery?”

“ _Subtly_.”

He could tell himself he wished this wasn’t his life as Derek stripped off his tee-shirt, tucked it into the back of his pants, and leant down to gather the deer into his arms, but he’d be lying. There was a permanent thrill that lay dormant under his skin until cases like these.

Derek, to his credit, only wrinkled his nose a little at the amount of blood that smeared his chest instantly. “I take cash or credit, cash is preferred…What are you doing, Jordan? Put that away before I bite you.”

He grinned and finished sending the text to Stiles. “I needed a picture to remember you by. This seemed to encapsulate everything about you.” And he’d have Stiles eating out of the palm of his hand for the next _century_.

Deaton spent too long just looking between Derek and the deer. “Did you do this?” He asked quizzically, the faintest disturbed expression on his face.

Derek grunted.

“No,” Parrish said, because Derek wasn’t going to, on the principle of it. “A crash, near the interstate. A car ran straight into it.”

“But…”

He sighed. “But it’s this town, and it had those weird markings and red eyes…”

Deaton made a noise of acknowledgement. “They’re gouges. From a horn or weapon. Claws would have slashed the skin, made lines. Are you sure it had these before the car hit it?”

“We don’t know how old they are. We checked the car for any abnormalities on the fender, but it was all smooth metal. The grill was fine, too.”

Deaton wrestled with a pair of latex gloves. He advanced on the carcass, peering at it with an unsettling glint in his eyes. He looked back at Parrish. “Have you spoken with Stiles?”

Derek made a disbelieving noise behind his back.

“Not yet. I wanted to check with you first. Should we be worried?”

Pushing back from the table, Deaton levelled him with his usual enigmatic gaze. “I don’t know, deputy. It could just be from some predator. Yes, yes,” he waved a hand at him, “I know the probability of it _not_ , but I need more time to explore. Come back later.”

Derek was looking at him pointedly as they left the clinic.

“Put your shirt back on,” he said.

“When are you going to tell the Sheriff?”

“Sometime. When Deaton’s given us a little more to go on.”

“You’re avoiding.”

“I am not. I just don’t want to bother my higher-up when it’s potentially nothing.”

“That’s not what you said in there.”

“Geesh, Hale.” He whirled on Derek. “You’ve become quite a talker.”

Derek stared at him for a long time before moving to leave. “You’re allowed to have personal issues, but I never thought you’d let them affect your job. See you, deputy.” He sprinted off into the line of trees.

Parrish watched him go, gnawing at his bottom lip.

~*~

_It’s some kind of Chupacabra,_ said Stiles, on speakerphone. _Deaton agrees with me. It translates to ‘goat sucker’—how dope is that? Derek, can you hear me? How insanely cool is that??_

Derek cleared his throat. “It’s very cool, Stiles.”

Parrish didn’t like how they were getting side-tracked. “Why is it ‘some kind’?”

_Chupacabras in the wild drain their prey. That poor little deer looked pretty bloody to me. You said it was still oozing blood, right? Maybe your critter is a distant relative who eats their dinner in a less disgusting way._

“Or something startled it before it could drain the deer.” There was a frown on Derek’s face. “It would explain the multiple stab wounds if the Chupacabra was grappling with the deer.”

_Say goat sucker, pussy_.

“Stiles,” Parrish interrupted, “is there anything more about its preferred method of attack?”

_Uh, gimme a minute. Wait here’s something: ‘while there have been claims of various Chupacabra-sightings over the years, the validity of such claims has often been disputed, typically regarding the creature’s use of a paralysing agent when hunting’._

He and Derek glanced at each other.

“Like a venom?”

_I guess. Didn’t you say the deer had red eyes? Maybe the venom had affected its nervous system._

Derek sounded like he was gritting his teeth. “I thought it _ran_ into the road.”

“We don’t know how fast-acting the venom is. It may well have only acted in full effect after the deer died.” He stared at his phone screen. “Thanks, Stiles. You’ve been a great help.” He knew Derek was rolling his eyes behind his back.

Stiles voice came muffled over the line. _It’s chill. I’ve gotten a lot of practice at this kind of thing. Wait—how’s my dad, by the way? I know he never gives me a full account of the happenings in Shmeacon Shmills—like it’s some big secret._

“Uh,” said Parrish, then went red. “He’s, uh, fine. Still…the Sheriff.” When he glanced over at Derek, he was staring at him pityingly.

_Still upholding your promise? I can’t believe it’s working so well; I really thought he would have bumbled you by now._

He laughed weakly. “Yeah…yeah. Listen, Stiles, if you find anything more on this…goatsucker—” he waited for Stiles’ enthusiastic whoop— “then let me know. Gotta go.” He ended the call and shoved his phone into his pocket.

“I’d hate to see the mess it would make if it got to a human,” Derek commented, going through the Chupacabra Wikipedia article on his phone.

“That’s why we’re on it,” he said grimly.

In the end, it was the Sheriff who shot it.

He hesitantly neared the mass on the ground.

It was almost hairless, except for wiry strands of fur on its elbows, head and tail. In the moonlight filtered through the trees it was an ugly heap of skin and bones—a bit like a grotesque dog with a knobbed ridge along its spine, sharp spikes poking up like the spines of a sea monster.

“Aren’t you a sight,” he said. Taking a risk, he nudged at it with his foot. “It’s dead.”

Parrish advanced, his gun drawn still. “Maybe we should shoot it twice. Or a hundred times. Just to be safe.”

The Sheriff chuckled. “What do we do with it?”

The answer, of course, was to have Derek burn it.”

“Are you sure you want to do it next to your house?” he asked him.

Derek didn’t spare him a glance, the bonfire already built. “No one comes this far out into the preserve.”

“But aren’t you going to live here? That’s like, the worst house-warming gift to yourself ever.”

“Parrish,” the Sheriff called.

He practically ran over. “Yes, sir?”

“You’re going to sign this case closed, and you’re not going to go all righteous saint on me.” The Sheriff handed him a file.

He received it and grinned wryly. “I know how this works, sir. This isn’t my first supernatural rodeo.”

He was gifted a warm smile and had to immediately busy his hands with the file, lest he do something stupid—like launch himself into that warmth. Now that the Chupacabra was dead, and Derek was dealing with it, it was just the two of them. And it could have been awkward but instead they lit up brighter than the bonfire Derek was currently having way too much fun with. It was a strange sort of gravity between them, not a one-sided magnetism where one pulled the other to them, but a mutual attraction that let them orbit each other’s warmth, not getting too close or too far.

“Could—could we talk?” he said in a rush. “Not now; I’m on shift. But…later? Please?”

The Sheriff gazed at him, just watching and waiting. “Sure,” he replied finally. “Whatever you like.”

Parrish pretended he couldn’t hear Derek fake-retching into the flames.

After several hours of staring at a bonfire and desperately trying to erase the smell of a burning Chupacabra from his memory, Parrish headed back to the station to clock out.

His uniform smelt like smoke and Eau de goat sucker, and he dreaded what the inside of the squad car would smell like once he’d gotten out. He parked outside the station and took a deep breath.

He’d gone two weeks without speaking to John. He’d spoken to the Sheriff—couldn’t not when he worked for him—but they’d made the distinction between private and professional without discussion, almost naturally. The Sheriff—John—hadn’t made an appearance in the workplace, never asking to speak to him privately, never even approaching him without good cause. That was a boundary they’d lain without needing to confer. It was there for a reason; it was because of it he could even think about speaking to _John_.

That was what he’d been petrified of—and John had destroyed that barrier too, unthinkingly and patiently. As time went on his reasons why _not_ and _why he couldn’t have_ were getting smaller and smaller, each crumbling in the face of John’s approach.

Jordan was beginning to realise that maybe all he’d needed to do was wait for John to complete the puzzle. Because everything he’d cried about or denied himself, John offered up a solution to with a warm smile, until he couldn’t do much else but give in and fall head-over-heels. Not blindly—they were laying out parameters, carefully constructing a space where just the two of them could exist. That shield had been renovated, refurbished. It glimmered now: new and electric warm, waiting to be inhabited. He shivered at the prospect.

Graeme wasn’t working that night, so he met Kelly at the desk.

“Parrish.” She nodded, then sniffed the air. “You smell like if the ovens at Papa John’s had passionate, flaming sex and produced a litter of fiery, little baby ovens.”

He wrinkled his nose. “The cycle of nature is gross. I had a…case. I’m just looking forward to my bed.”

“Not for passionate oven sex, I hope!” she called after him.

“It makes sense in context,” he told Ainsley when the other deputy looked up sporting a bewildered expression. He headed for his desk.

Ainsley went back to his paperwork. “If you say so, deputy.”

He put away the report of the evening, collected his coat and left, waving a weary goodbye. He’d meant to talk to John after his shift, but he desperately needed a shower, his head was swimming from the smoke, and exhaustion had begun settling into his bones.

When he got home, he stripped his uniform off, along with it the days events. Somewhat idly, he hoped they wouldn’t permeate his mind as he slept as nightmares often did. It was a perk of the job they all dealt with, although not every deputy had to replay the memory of a murderous Chupacabra barrelling towards the people one cared about, spikes spindly and deadly in the moonlight.

He crawled into bed, drew the covers up around his body. Closing his eyes, he made himself forget, and the image planted on the back of his eyelids of the creature about to strike John dissipated into the soft matter between synapses.

The voice had a physical form this time. It glowed and beckoned him, seemingly from far away, but when he turned his head to the side it was there, hovering and watching. It happened over and over. He would find himself standing in nothing, nothing around him. Then something internally would urge him to look up to the distance. The voice—or the light he could call it now—would rest in front of him, away, away, away. But he’d look sideways, and it would be there, there, there, right where he needed it. Because what good was light far off in the distance when you were stumbling on your path? And similarly, what comfort was a steady, warm voice if you couldn’t hear it right beside you?

With trembling hands, in a moment of sheer desperateness, he clutched at the ball of light. His fingers grazed it. Felt the edges of heat against cool skin. He wasn’t able to fully grasp it, not yet, but the glow was brighter, and the voice hummed louder, and he knew, with a little practice he’d clasp it in his fingers and contain it in his hands, like holding a jar of fireflies that illuminated the otherwise silent night.

~*~

It was sometime in the middle of the night when he startled awake. His room was dark and shapeless, a void waiting to suck him in.

He’d been dreaming of the heat again, and the cool. But what was usually a pleasant warmth, a thrilling iciness, swarmed him, enveloped him and swallowed his body whole. He couldn’t breathe, every muscle paralysed by the frost that had set in. His upper body was scorching, flesh melting into wax. Flames licked at his brain, his mind screaming, locked inside his head, couldn’t get out and escape the heat.

Down along his spine the ice was settling in like stone. It froze his nerve endings into complex snowflakes against the backdrop of his organ system. Cells stiffened and expanded. It was heavy, to have all your innards suddenly freeze solid, and excruciatingly cold, like having nitrous oxide siphoned through your stomach, along the pipe that was his spine.

He vaguely registered he was sobbing. The pain felt real and frightening.

Without realising it he was in his car—and gods, his guardian angel had to be doing overtime—and driving. Whether it was simply away from the pain, or towards a particular something he wasn’t sure. Then the engine switched off and he was stumbling out of the car on still-frozen limbs, up a driveway and onto a porch, knocking frantically on the front door with icy hands.

There was a bell to the side, pressed into the wall, and he rang that. Millenia could have passed, and he’d still be standing on that doorstep waiting.

John opened the door all fuzzy with sleep, irritation and panic warring over his face. When he saw Jordan, his eyes softened, although his voice was sharp with concern.

“Jords?” he said.

He tumbled into John’s arms. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” John stepped back into the house, guiding him into the shield, “Jords, it’s okay. What can I do? Do you want a drink—or…” he cast his gaze around desperately, searching for something, anything.

“No, no, no,” he sobbed, clinging tighter to his body. “I just—I want—”

“Breathe.” John rubbed his back. “Tell me, sweetheart. Wait, no, I’m sorry. Forget I said that. Just breathe and tell me what you need.”

He keened and nuzzled into the soft cotton of John’s t-shirt. “Please call me that again.”

“Sweetheart,” he said lowly. Then: “Can I take you upstairs?”

“Yes,” Jordan answered, barely standing. The ice was thawing, but at such a slow rate that the memory of the pain persisted.

They went upstairs into John’s bedroom. The bed was messy, the covers thrown back. John settled them on the edge, their feet on the floor, his arms still around him.

“Can I—” Jordan began hesitantly, and John waited patiently, “can you touch me? Please, John. You don’t have to.”

“How, sweetheart?” His voice was throaty and strained. “Like this?”

He moved them further onto the bed, so his back was against the headboard and Jordan between his bent knees.

“Yes,” he whispered.

He pulled Jordan tight against him, the collar of his t-shirt tickling the back of Jordan’s neck. “And this?”

“Yes,” he whispered. He was between John’s legs, a steady warmth along the line of his back. It soothed the flames in his chest. Fire with fire.

Breathing surely and deeply, John placed a hand on his waist. He played with the hem of his shirt. Slid under it and splayed his fingers against the skin there. “Is this okay?” Rubbed in smooth arcs, fingertips stopping just short of digging into skin.

“Yes please,” he whimpered, pressed deeper into the heat caging him in.

John shifted his other hand, hesitated for a second. “I’m going to do something, sweetheart. Tell me immediately if you don’t like it.”

He nodded, and John’s large hand came up, over his face and resting over his eyes. He had to close his eyes and then it was his brain’s turn to be soothed. The heat emanating from John’s fingers sank into his nerve endings. John cupped his hand slightly so that it acted like a blindfold, forcing him to only focus on the pleasant warmth; it was a smart decision: the fire in his body would burn out quicker and the ice would thaw, making heat his saviour at the moment.

“What was wrong, sweetheart?”

He felt the whisper ghost against the shell of his ear.

Shivering, he spoke into the darkness, shades of light between John’s fingers, “Dream. It hurt me.”

“What a good boy.” John pulled him tighter against his own body—if that were possible. “Such a good boy for coming to me. Would you like some water?”

Jordan shook his head. “Can we stay here?”

In answer, John continued to massage his stomach and waist, exploring the expanse of skin there. His fingers were hot against Jordan’s cool skin, then cold against his hot skin. Both simultaneously. It caused an explosion of sensation throughout his body.

He felt something bubbling to the surface, among ripples of confusion and hesitation. He was able to ignore it for a few minutes. Then it buzzed under John’s fingers, an annoying hum that ached in the mind John was still repairing for him.

“John?” he said quietly. The arms shifted around him.

“Yes, Jords?”

“I’m really sorry for running away. I got scared of what was happening—” he needed John to interrupt, to stop the flow of words slipping out of him like an avalanche, but of course he wouldn’t— “I got scared of what I was feeling because I’d told myself it would never happen. Not in a million years. But I really wanted it to.”

“Sweetheart,” he nuzzled the top of Jordan’s head, “doesn’t time seem to work different when we’re together?”

It did.

“We’ve spent years in each other’s presence. Who’s to say we haven’t known each other for a million years? And the beauty of it is that we still have so much time to spend. I want to use it like this—” his hand slid up Jordan’s stomach so it rested on his sternum, neatly between his pectoral muscles— “and every other way you can think of. Okay, sweetheart?”

He was boneless in John’s grasp, a heap of muscle and feeling and quivering sensation.

“Thank you, John. Thank you, thank you.” He was sobbing, droplets wetting John’s hand.

“What for?” he whispered, voice a warm timbre.

“I’m always so hot. Or cold. Never both without you.”

The shield was impossibly tight around them, new and dazzling, fault lines repaired. It was a greenhouse: cold lining the outside walls, an exquisite heat replacing the very air.

He felt for the mask. His fingers fumbled against the edges—felt the jagged pieces rudimentarily wedged together. The spaces where they didn’t quite fit housed millions of years, stretching out on a spectrum where heat and cold existed mutually in a fine balancing act, like a tightrope in his mind. There was enough time to grab it tight, hug it to him; but within those shards he saw the future, and it was bright and beautiful, hot and cold. So, he let his fingers close around nothing. Watched the mask fracture as it fell into millions of segments, away from him, down, down, down.

He settled into John’s heat, laid fully bare, and was rewarded by gentle kisses to the to his crown. The darkness had made it easier to focus—forced him to, for once—and smiled, the upward tilt to his lips grazing the line of John’s thumb.

“I know what I want now. Can I stay with you?”

John’s breathing hitched against the back of his head.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse, and Jordan hadn’t been the only one abandoning his mask, “if I can stay with you.”

~

When he woke up John was a line of steady heat against his body in the cool morning air. He felt exhausted—emotionally, not physically—but compared to how he was reluctant to use tired muscles, this exhaustion was relieving, made him want to start feeling things again immediately.

One glance at the sleeping body beside him and he did.

He had work, and he was going to be extremely late if he didn’t get up now.

“I have to go,” he whispered, leaning over the body and getting sucked into its orbit. “My uniform’s at my house. And I’m not skipping work for you.”

John shifted, a tired chuckle escaping him. “I’d hope not. You’re one of my deputies. Hey, no,” he sat up when Jordan’s eyes clouded, “we’re going to talk about this, okay? No hiding. You’re my deputy at work, and whatever you want to be at home.”

Jordan nodded. “Then I guess I should be leaving.” He grinned suddenly, mischievously, and leaped off the bed. “See you later.”

John grabbed for him, but was too slow, and could only watch him dash across the room. He paused in the doorway, and that was his undoing.

Eyes dark, John was staring at him. “Jords,” he said, voice deep, “get back here. Immediately.”

He hesitated, turned to leave again, and suddenly a pair of arms wrapped around his middle. He hadn’t noticed John moving. With a thump, he landed on the bed, on top of the dishevelled covers. His wrists were pinned to the bed, John lowering himself, so they were chest to chest.

“When I say something, sweetheart, you obey, don’t you?”

The words were whispered, almost growled. He shivered under the attack of sensation.

He nodded quickly. Couldn’t trust himself to speak.

John smiled down at him, pressed closer. “What do you _say_?”

“Yes d—John. Yes, John.” He blushed bright red, heart beating painfully.

John’s smile took a feral edge. “Oh, we’re definitely continuing this later.” He leaned down, his lips brushing Jordan’s ear. “What were you going to say, sweetheart?”

He wrestled with his full body weight, managing to regain his wrists. He escaped out the room, cheeks hot enough to cook off.

When he reached the front door, he had a small smile playing about his mouth. Not that he’d ever admit to it.

“Did you see anything else, Mam? Any distinguishing descriptors, such as eye colour, clothing, anything?”

The little old lady shook her head. “I only saw him from a distance, deputy. And my eyesight’s not what it used to be…”

He closed his notepad, making sure to smile winningly. “That’s fine. I can’t say mine’s the best either. Part of growing older, isn’t it?” His radio was on his shoulder, backup waiting just on the other end, but he wasn’t getting anywhere with this. “May I take your name, Mam?”

“Georgie Lambriss,” she said willingly, and at least there was one positive about the situation. He’d dealt with difficult civilians before; wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy.

“Thank you for your co-operation, Ms Lambriss. We’ll be dealing with it to the best of our abilities.”

Turning away, he took a moment to rub his temples. The rate of vandalism had been steadily rising as youths began growing increasingly restless—it was safe to assume it was youths. There’d been three reports that day alone—in broad daylight, no less. He could only think it was due to it being close to spring break, and they were anxiously waiting for freedom. He could relate to that, remembering his own experiences at school.

If it wasn’t for waking up in John’s bed, he’d have fazed out by now. Instead, he was still running on a reserve of fuel, fired up due to pride at himself for finally letting go and excitement at what was going to happen next.

It was nearing five p.m., and he was looking forward to finally getting off shift.

“You finally spoke to Mrs Lambriss?” Ainsley asked, watching with amusement as he slunk into the station and landed heavily in his chair.

“Lord gi—” he inspected the chair. “Who took my chair! I know someone did, this one has a spring poking out. Kelly?”

“No, I didn’t,” she said, looking awfully comfortable at her desk.

He whined pitifully and poked at the seat again. “This one is causing me permanent spinal damage. And yes, I sorted Mrs Lambriss out. Forty minutes it took me.”

The Sheriff called out from his office, “I hope by ‘sorted out’, you mean ‘dealt with pleasantly and dutifully’, deputy.”

“Uh,” he shared a quick grin with Ainsley, “of course, Sheriff.”

He hoped the other deputies couldn’t hear how fast speaking to the Sheriff made his heart race. He was still perfecting separating his private and professional lives. It also didn’t help he had to keep forcefully pushing aside thoughts of that morning, lest he begged a thousand toilet breaks.

“Did I get the record for dealing with her?” he asked.

Kelly tapped at something on her keyboard then focused on him. “Nope. Record still goes to yours truly—” she nodded towards the Sheriff’s office. “Twenty minutes.”

He gaped. “Seriously?”

“Yup. Guess the longest.”

“…an hour.”

She grinned gleefully. “Two. Guess who.”

He stifled a laugh and surveyed the station. “Strauss?”

“Nope.” Her eyes had a mad glint in them. She nodded inconspicuously to Ainsley, who was steadfastly pretending he couldn’t hear them. “There’s your winner. Or, well, your loser.”

Jordan grinned, getting up to visit the records room. “What were you doing, man—reciting the declaration of Independence?”

Kelly guffawed.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ainsley said, sinking in his seat. “I still have flashbacks.”

Really, he could sympathise with that.

The file he was looking for took forever to find, and by the time he made it back to his desk he only had a few minutes left on the clock.

He dropped into the seat behind his desk, preparing to scan records on his computer, when he noticed something strange. The seat was no longer gouging a hole in his back. He sat back, experimentally. Nope, no gouging.

“Guys?” he said.

Then he realised the Sheriff’s office was empty, the Sheriff presumably having clocked out while he was busy. Had to tamp down on the irrational twinge of hurt that he hadn’t said goodbye.

“Guys,” he said again.

When he looked in their direction, both Kelly and Ainsley were fighting smirks, occasionally glancing at each other and snickering.

“Nothing,” said Kelly. “Guess you have a guardian angel, Parrish.”

Ainsley didn’t offer anything, staring fixedly at his monitor.

He decided to love them and leave them. Besides, it was only a minute or two early on the clock.

There was a moment of doubt where he wasn’t sure which direction to point the car in. He headed home. They hadn’t said they were spending time together that evening—at least, not explicitly. He needed explicit. It didn’t change the fact that every fibre of his body was pointing towards the Stilinskis’ house like it was due north.

He decided on stir-fry that evening. The radio was softly spewing melodies, and the food was sizzling when the doorbell rang. He paused with the spoon in the pan, not expecting anybody.

The front door opened to reveal John standing on the front step. He kissed him without thinking, hand leaving the doorknob to curl in John’s hair.

“And here I was thinking you didn’t want to see me.” He chuckled against Jordan’s lips. “Invite me in, Jords.”

“You sound like a vampire,” he said, grinning, but let him in. “I wasn’t sure what we agreed to. You could have texted me.”

John crowded him against the wall. “And missed making my point? Never. I missed you today.”

“I was right across the station.” He placed a soft kiss on his cupid’s bow.

“That was the problem.”

Jordan pulled away, to breathe. “Is it? A problem?”

“No. Just me being greedy.”

He suddenly remembered the food. He slipped out from under John’s arm and dashed for the kitchen. It wasn’t burnt, having caught it just before it crossed the line into ‘over-cooked’.

John followed behind leisurely. “I was going to say I smelt something.” He peered into the pan. “Looks good.”

Jordan preened at the praise. “I have enough for two…”

They ate leaning against the kitchen counter, blowing on the noodles between bites, laughing at the other when they took a too-hot bite.

“Are you sticking to the diet-plan?” John asked, looking at his bowl. “Reporting back to Stiles.”

“No,” he said, skewering a pepper. “This is our thing now. Do you like st—”

John leant down and kissed his cheekbone, understanding his words for what they were.

“If you keep doing that—” he vainly focused on the contents of his bowl— “I won’t be able to finish this. And I’m really hungry.” He gasped at the kiss on his jawline. “ _John_. Stop.”

“Sorry,” John said, not sounding very sorry at all. “You’re tastier than…” he dug through his stir-fry, “mushrooms.” Wrinkled his nose.

“They’re not the best,” he agreed. “Eat them and I’ll make it up to you.” The heat from the kisses was branded into his skin.

The speed at which he consumed the offending vegetables would have been funny, if Jordan wasn’t in such a rush, himself. A blood rush, to what felt like every part of his body.

In the end, it was him who finished first, and he had to watch as John torturously and slowly ate the last of his bowl.

“ _John_ ,” he whined. Dignity had long ago been defenestrated.

“What, sweetheart?” He had a fucking pleased-as-pie smirk resting on his lips.

He refused to say it. Made himself lean against the counter in silence, stewing.

He hated John, hated his stupid mouth and his stupid tongue—oh.

“You don’t need to eat it like that,” he hissed.

John ignored him, gathering the bowls and placing them next to the sink. He ran a sink of hot water and rinsed the cutlery. Jordan stared at his back in disbelief.

“Pass me the fairy liquid, sweetheart.”

The soap suds bubbled up around his elbows, and he reached for the pan. That went into the sink as well, submerging under the foam and hot water. It reminded Jordan of the day he tried to wash a few dishes and ended up on the floor. The tile pattern was the same, but this time he felt no urge to sink down onto it, the cold manageable and barely icy at all. He just wanted the person standing there. It was a personal victory.

Unless the person standing there killed him.

“John,” he said quietly.

John left the dishes to dry on the rack and used a rag to wipe down the stove area. He rinsed the rag and drained the sink, humming along to the radio that was still playing, and the scene was utterly and beautifully domestic.

The arousal built slowly and achingly in his body, until he could barely see straight, senses honed on one singular person. It was beginning to blister.

If he could just touch something cool, feel a cold to balance the heat his body was self-generating, self-destructively, in the most human-like fashion.

“ _John_ , please,” he whispered, defeatedly.

John turned instantly; tea-towel slung over his shoulder. “That’s all I needed to hear,” he said, scooping Jordan into his arms. “Such a good boy for asking. What do you want?”

“Upstairs,” he managed. He pulled them out of the kitchen, up the stairs and into his bedroom, knees buckling.

“This is familiar,” John chuckled, as they landed on the bed with him covering Jordan’s body with his own. “Are we following a theme?” He leant down and began smothering his neck with little kisses. “If so, we’re going to get that word out of you.”

Jordan moaned, pulled him closer. He wasn’t sure what he liked best: the immediate heat, or the cold that followed soon after, like Summer anticipating Winter.

“Can you take your shirt off, please?” He smirked at how blown John’s pupils were.

“Gladly.” John let him help take his shirt off, and then he had a near-naked body hovering over him, lines of muscle begging for his tongue.

He flipped them, liking how John stretched out in his bed. With a stroke of confidence, he whispered into his ear, “It’s your turn to beg. I hope you’ve said your prayers.”

John watched him crawl down his body, pause at his belt buckle. He nodded in consent and swallowed when Jordan took it as invitation to divest him of pants and all.

“Too fast?” he asked, peering up the bed. Receiving a laboured shake of the head, he planned his method of attack. It had to be deadly, punishing for the little teasing act in the kitchen, and enough to brand him into John’s skin.

He wanted to be remembered. To stake his claim. He decided on a flurry of kisses up his inner thigh, then, when he thought John wasn’t breathing hard enough, sucked a deep bruise into the sensitive flesh, hearing the ragged pants and smiling to himself. The hickey sat dark and colourful against pale skin like how a flag was placed on the moon.

It still wasn’t enough, so he navigated north. Licked into the creases of his thighs, the divots that were so tender he had to hold John’s legs down.

“Don’t look so wrecked,” he said. “We’re nowhere near finished.” Grinned evilly and breathed over John’s cock.

He waited until it became painful for the man under him. Then he attacked. Didn’t waste time kissing and licking tentatively. He got about half in his mouth in one go and sucked _hard_.

John bucked like he’d been electrocuted—and maybe he had. Jordan had enough heat and adrenaline running through his body for the both of them, connected via mouth and cock.

“Jords, Jords, Jords,” he cried, a senseless litany tumbling out of his mouth. “Oh, god. How—”

He smirked around his cock. Allowed the heat to cool then let up. “Why are you so surprized? When you tease you get punished.”

“This. Doesn’t feel. Like. Punishment,” John managed through gritted teeth, and that simply wouldn’t do.

“I see. We’ll just have to try harder.” He leant down again.

John just had time to let out a strangled, “ _No!”_ before he convulsed again. This time, Jordan had stuck his tongue in the slit of his cock’s head and wiggled it hotly and wetly. It was just slightly on the edge of _too rough,_ a warning along with pleasure.

He nosed his way down, pressing wet kisses everywhere he could reach. When he got to his balls, he lathered the sensitive skin with his tongue. John tensed, waiting. Jordan smirked into his thigh, just letting his hot breath ghost over the excruciatingly tender area.

But he’d planned to _destroy_ , not tease. So, he barely grazed his teeth against his ball sack, a silent warning not to dare move. Then he got his mouth back on the mouth-wateringly pretty cock and licked it in long stripes up and down.

John had him up by the hair in a milli-second, flipping them over and plundering his mouth.

“I let you play. Now it’s my turn.” He nudged Jordan’s top lip with his teeth, bit down. It hurt more than his plumper lower lip, and he writhed against the hold on him.

John caught his wrists in a large hand and pinned them above his head in one smooth motion. He had another hand free, and he set about regaining control.

“Ohhh, yes,” he gasped out when a hand ground into the hardness between his legs. “ _Please_.”

John looked delighted. “Begging already? Baby, payback is _sweet_.”

“No, no, no,” he sobbed as the hand retreated. “John—”

Delicious friction reappeared—just for a moment—then John looked to him for permission to remove his clothes.

He nodded frantically, beyond caring for appearances. The room was warm around them. It was a cocoon in which nothing existed but hands and mouths and little murmurings.

“Words, baby,” John whispered against his clothed heat.

“Yes, please, yes.”

He chuckled and tugged Jordan’s pants down. “So pretty,” he said softly. “Lift up.” Jordan obliged, moving his legs and then he was bare from the waist down. John rid him of his shirt, and he lay fully at the mercy of someone he’d been thinking about ever since he first moved to Beacon Hills. That was almost an orgasm on its own.

John noticed, of course he did, and said, smiling, “Do you like that? Being the only one bare?”

He did, but not tonight.

“I’d prefer it if you were too,” he replied archly.

John seemed to agree, if his rapid kicking-off of the last few inches of his pants was anything to go by.

“Now you’re going to beg,” he said confidently, then slithered down the length of Jordan’s body.

“For what?” he asked, staring up at the ceiling.

“You’ll see.”

Then he saw stars.

“Oh, god, oh god, fuck.” His hand found its way to his mouth and he squealed behind it.

John’s tongue soothed his perineum and darted downwards again.

“John, John, John. You can’t just _do that_ —”

John paused, and that was torture too.

“Do you want me to stop?”

The ‘ _No!’_ that burst out of him was so forceful and desperate that John laughed into his thigh, the vibrations horribly sensitive on the skin there.

He lay there and desperately tried not to come. But John’s hair would occasionally tickle the base of his dick, and he’d be reminded of the reality of the situation and all his previous work at ignoring the intensity of the sensation would come undone.

John twisted his tongue and breathed hotly against his entrance and fuck, it felt so good.

“I’m going to come,” he gasped, “I’m going to c—”

John pulled away, grinning up at him.

“It’s not going to be that easy, sweetheart. W—”

“Please fuck me,” he said, writhing on the bed, trying to get closer to John. “You have to fuck me. _Please_ , John.”

“Oh, I do, do I?” John pressed a kiss right against his hole.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to…” he said, suddenly feeling vulnerable. Looked at the ceiling again.

“Hey,” John moved up the bed, shifting to cover Jordan’s body with his own, “no, look at me, sweetheart. Of course, I want to.” He ground down and Jordan gasped out again. “You can’t get shy now. Not when I’ve tasted you.”

Jordan managed to locate a pack of condoms and lube from the drawer beside the bed.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, as John positioned himself between his legs.

John lubed up two fingers in response. “Such a good boy, always asking. Think you can take two?”

He nodded frantically. Knotting the bedspread in his hands, he tried to relax. It was difficult, especially when all his senses were going haywire.

The stretch was addictive. He found himself whispering, “More, more,” and blinking up at the ceiling.

“How do you ask, baby?” John was already slipping a third finger in. It tugged deliciously at his rim and he bore down on it.

“Please,” he whispered, feeling the electric sensation through his whole body when John praised him. He was already hooked. “Am I being good?”

John met his eyes and smiled. “Perfect, baby. The best. You’re going to look so good on my cock.”

Jordan agreed, canting his hips up for more.

“Please, more, more. D—please, John.”

John ended with a twist of his fingers before pulling them out. He smirked when Jordan whined. “So impatient. Don’t worry, soon you’ll be sobbing out that word you keep choking back.”

“I’m n—” then he promptly choked on his tongue when suddenly there was a cock bumping against him. “How did you get that on so quickly?”

“Lots of practice.”

He pouted. “It’s not polite to reference all the times you’ve had sex with _other_ people right when you’re about to fuck someone.”

John chuckled. “Sorry, baby. If it’s any consolation, I’m already hooked on only you.”

That…that was amazing, actually.

He batted his eyelashes. “I can make it even better, if you’ll just fucking move.”

“Jordan!” John swatted him on the ass. “And I was just telling you how good you are being.”

“No, I am! I am!” He wanted John in him so badly. “Please move.”

John obliged, but not in the way he was expecting. He fucking _drove_ in, and it hurt and was so, so hot, and mainly, above all, it felt really, really good.

“Fuck,” he said. Then: “Harder, John.”

He was pushed up the bed with force John pounded into him.

“Take it, baby. You wanted it; take it.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” His hands were clenching and unclenching, and John cupped them in his own, used them as leverage.

When the furious assault started hitting that spot, his eyes rolled back. He arched off the bed and screamed.

“So good, baby,” John whispered into his ear. “What if I stopped?”

“No,” he sobbed. “No, _please_.”

John stopped.

“John!” His voice cracked and he desperately tried to move. But he was being held down by the weight of John’s body; he couldn’t even move his right leg, John’s other hand pushing it into the mattress. It was as good as being tied down.

“Ssh, sweetheart.” He leaned down so their mouths brushed. “Stop fighting.”

“But I was being so good,” he sobbed, near inconsolable. Thrashed under the body pinning him. “I was taking it and—”

“I know you were. But now I’m asking you to lie still. Can you do that for me, Jords?”

He swallowed thickly. Nodded. It was a herculean effort, his body still buzzed around the cock in him. The fight bled out of him slowly and he relaxed into the mattress.

John was staring at him, wonder in every line of his face. “You’re so perfect for me. Look at you obeying like a good boy. So, so perfect just lying there.”

He shifted, and then Jordan felt it.

“Oh,” he panted, loud in the silent room. He had to close his eyes.

John kissed the side of his jaw, mouthed his way down his neck. He adjusted his position, and then Jordan saw stars again.

He felt it in his _soul_.

The cock in him was so heavy, so impossibly deep, and he felt wonderfully full. Really, he felt like he was pinned to the bed by John’s cock alone, and judging by John’s laboured breathing, he felt it too.

Just when he was finding it difficult to breath, the pressure building and pressing against him inside and out, John began to move again.

“Oh, god, daddy pl—” his eyes widened, and he felt his face burn.

But John didn’t slow, just mumbled a pleased, “ _Good boy_ ,” against his skin, and sucked bruises into his neck.

So, he let his orgasm crash into him, whimpering “Daddy, daddy, daddy,” into the impossibly small space between them.

When John came, he was buried in Jordan’s body, and Jordan’s hands were released to tangle in his hair.

“You’re definitely not doing this with anyone else,” he whispered, and felt rather than saw John’s smile.

John nuzzled into him tiredly. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.”

~

Jordan slammed the trunk shut, arms laden with grocery bags, and walked up the drive. The front door was unlocked, and he slipped into the house. There was the familiar warmth, balanced by the coolness of the hallway.

“John?” he called.

“In the kitchen! Do you need any help?”

“I’m fine.” He headed down the hallway, shuffling the bags slightly. He entered the kitchen, puffing under the weight and stopped.

John turned around where he was standing at the stove, clad in an apron. “Jordan, I know we agreed on vegetable soup, but—"

Stiles looked up from where he was sitting on the counter, legs swinging jauntily. “Jordan? Wh—Parrish!” He hopped down and clapped him on the back, grinning. “What are you doing here?”

He felt caged. “Uh…” He looked between father and son. “Groceries?”

Stiles’ face lit up. “Aw yeah, man! You’re the best.”

The bags were taken from him and he was left standing in the doorway awkwardly.

John looked similarly trapped but gestured at a place beside the stove.

He walked over, slotting in easily beside the other man. The flame was on a steady heat, and whatever was in the pot John was stirring was bubbling gently.

“Whatcha making?”

John offered him a spoonful. “Chili. Nice?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed, then whispered, “You didn’t tell me he was coming home.”

John winced. “I thought I did,” he whispered back. “Then I got home from work and he was upstairs. It doesn’t have to be a problem.”

“I never said it _was_. You need to learn how to use your phone.”

“Like you always answer yours, right?”

“I—” he spluttered. “This is about you. Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m sorry, Jords. But it’ll be fine.”

“Why’ve you bought this? It isn’t on the shopping list.”

They turned at Stiles’ voice.

He was holding out a box of almond milk.

“I prefer it,” Jordan said, without thinking.

Stiles looked confused, gaze shifting between the two of them, before he looked away.

“Right…” he said, already digging through the bags again. “I’ll just leave it on the counter, then.”

He pretended he couldn’t hear John’s low chuckle in his ear.

“How’s college, Stiles?” he asked instead. Pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and lounged in it.

Stiles snorted. “It’s… _college_. I thought I’d left hormonal teenagers behind when I graduated high school. My forensics course is cool. We’ve just finished with Drug Chemistry which was _amazing_. I’m still waiting for the dead bodies, though.”

“That’s the only reason you applied, right son?” John commented, lips quirking up.

“It played a _factor_ , yes.” Stiles stuffed the bread in the bread bin. “By the way, any other Supernatural occurrences you wouldn’t have told me about?”

John grunted, stirring the Chili again. “Jordan would have told you anyway.”

He inclined his head lazily. “I’m not taking Deaton’s word as gospel.”

“Ah, still creepy, then?”

“That, and you’re better at research.”

Stiles beamed at him. John frowned.

“Don’t give me that look, John. He’s an adult. And he has more experience than we do combined.” He stared John down, face morphing into a smile that he fought off. John’s face wore a matching expression.

“Dad,” said Stiles loudly, “I think someone’s at the front door.”

John gave him a strange look but left the kitchen anyway.

“Dude,” Stiles hissed as soon as his dad was out of earshot. “How did you do that?”

Jordan tried for confused. “What do you mean?”

“You just reduced a two-hour rant into a five-second exchange, that’s what? Are you his dealer? Is that what’s going on here.”

It was so ridiculous he had to laugh.

“Maybe he respects my opinion more.”

Stiles flipped him the bird.

“There wasn’t anyone there,” John said, walking back in and taking up residence at the stove once more. “I think you need to get your hearing checked.”

They ate around the little kitchen table, knees knocking into each other.

“Better than the soup,” Jordan allowed.

John snorted. “That’s because I made it.”

He scoffed but didn’t deign replying. The truth was he had fallen completely head over heels for moments like these. Moments John had afforded him, giving endlessly and patiently, with the same fond smile and crinkled eyes.

Stiles sipped his juice. “Do you guys often eat together?”

“Not every night.” John glanced at Jordan. “It’s difficult when one of us has a night shift.”

He rolled his eyes. “Please. You just want a few evenings where you can sneak whatever you want.”

“Pot, kettle, deputy. I saw you take a donut when Graeme offered them ‘round today.”

Jordan slanted a look in his direction. “You shouldn’t use your office for spying. Besides,” he bumped their knees together, “I don’t have a son watching my every move.”

“Right,” agreed Stiles, but he looked like his mind was elsewhere. “Thanks for dinner, dad.”

He collected the bowls and stood up to go to the sink. “Yeah, it was great, John.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” John said without thinking.

Stiles' head whipped in their direction.

Jordan froze in front of the sink.

“I don’t know,” said Stiles slowly, “who that was meant for, but I would bet a thousand dollars it wasn’t me.”

“Uh,” John said, looking helplessly at Jordan.

“For god’s sake just tell him,” he said exasperatedly, and deposited the bowls in the sink. He turned back to watch the scene unfold.

Stiles was staring at John accusingly. “I _knew_ there was something going on with you! You want to know why? I prepared a bunch of reasons.”

“You don’t have to,” John protested weakly.

“First reason: the last time we facetimed you weren’t wearing your wedding ring. Second reason: the last time you showed me the inside of the fridge you’d bought double what you’d need for a meal for one. Third—”

“I think we get the gist.” John was sitting still, posture defensive.

“Go on,” said Jordan.

“—reason: when I asked you how you were you _blushed_. This happened every time since last month. Fourth reason,” Stiles paused for breath, “the table’s arranged differently. The surface has been cleared and the chairs are pushed around the sides instead of the front. No need to dwell on that too deeply.”

He flushed to the roots of his hair, remembering what they’d done on the table, and was glad no one was focusing on him.

“Fifth reason: you’ve looked at Parrish a total of fifty times this evening when you thought no one was watching. And it was that look where your eyes crinkle—”

His heart was thudding in his chest, heat curling and constricting around the muscle. He _loved_ that look.

“and then we’ve got reason number six—”

“I think we’ve all got the message, Stiles,” John interrupted, and his voice was cold and tight and wrong. “I’m sorry I wasn’t better at hiding the fact that I’m in love!”

There were a few moments where it felt like no one breathed, afraid to upset the fragile atmosphere.

It was so, so hot, all around him—steam escaping from his bones, and he blindly felt for his mask. Realised it didn’t exist anymore; he’d destroyed it in a haze of goodwill and honesty. It wasn’t a painful heat—not at all like the one dream he’d had. It was a sauna, and he was slipping. Into his feelings, afraid he’d be lost in the steam.

“You love me?” He thought it was his voice, but it was so hesitant and faltering he didn’t recognise it.

“I’m, uh, going to go. See Derek.” Stiles inched for the door. “Congratulations, I guess.”

Then it was just the two of them.

“John?” he said. The air in his lungs felt hot. “Please look at me. _Hey_ ,” he strode over to where John was sitting and pulled his chair out, so they were facing each other. He could be strong when he wanted, “when someone asks you a question you _answer_. And I said please.”

A smile ghosted over John’s face.

“I haven’t been in love for years,” he mumbled. “I’ve loved, but that isn’t the same thing.”

There was a million things Jordan wanted to say. They were on the tip of his tongue, ready to escape with a backload of steam. But he owed John patience—if there was one thing he admired about the other man it was that.

“Maybe its admiration,” he said. “For how good I am at cooking.”

John looked at him then. “You’re not that good.”

“You still eat it, though.”

“Oh, god,” he rubbed his eyes, “maybe I _am_ in love.”

And his honesty. He really fucking loved his honesty.

“If we’re dealing in hypotheticals,” he began, “I may love you too. Just the teensiest bit.”

John dragged him forward and into his lap. “The teensiest bit?”

He leant down, brushed their mouths together. “A lot, actually.” He could be honest too.

Smiling in earnest now, John cupped his face with one large hand. The angle was slightly off; they _were_ on a wooden chair, for Pete’s sake, and his legs had nowhere to go but wrap awkwardly around the chair legs, but he was happy.

“And if we weren’t dealing in hypotheticals?” he asked softly. “Jords, how much?”

“Everything,” he whispered, eyes wide and honest. “It—sounds stupid, but I love you everything. All the smallest bits and all the largest bits. Everything.”

He got rewarded for that. A lot.

When he pulled away to breathe, John chased after him.

“One more,” he whined, and Jordan had to laugh.

“Not until you say it, _sweetheart_.”

John’s mouth dropped open, even while his eyes darkened and his grip on Jordan’s hips tightened. “Baby, you’re playing with fire.” And how true that was. But the heat had simmered now—he had all the tools at his disposal to calm it. Worst came to worst, he could fight fire with fire.

“Please, daddy.”

John surged forwards and up. He attacked his neck, licking and sucking deeply, all the while moving them out of the kitchen. Jordan was walked backward, through the house, until the back of his knees hit the couch and he toppled over.

“I love you, Jords.” John joined him on the couch, pinned him down. “And I’m not going to be afraid of it.”

His voice was a warm timbre, coiling in Jordan’s stomach, chasing away cold like whiskey, yet oddly cool to the touch as well. It existed on a spectrum: a million years of heat and cold mingling and creating a space for just them.

He’d been given a heart, and now he used it to love John Stilinski. There wasn’t a need for his mask anymore; it would have burnt to a crisp, frozen in the cold.

_The End_.

**Author's Note:**

> "No," I growl, clutching my armful of extended metaphors to my chest, "you can't take them from me." 
> 
> Anyways, I really hoped you liked this; I had a ton of writing this pairing.  
> Please consider leaving a comment/kudos--any feedback is appreciated!


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